


Impulse Control

by rippedoutgrace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Original Character(s), Violence, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippedoutgrace/pseuds/rippedoutgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's falling - self-destructive and alone, he meets someone on the way to rock bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch Me Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look. I'm writing again (i.e., I just wanted an excuse to write this pairing, so here we are). Most of you know that I update as I write and I almost never plan ahead so that's all the info I can give you for now. Other than that, enjoy!

He only vaguely registers the sounds ringing in his ears when he hits the floor. It should be loud, it should be deafening but he can’t hear it. The pain in his side fills his consciousness and he briefly thinks, _broken rib_. Maybe two from the way his breath catches in his chest.

 

He doesn’t even see the foot coming towards his jaw until it’s nearly too late, head turning at the last possible second. The impact above his ear jars his vision and makes his head swim. The sickly glow of the fluorescent light above him is the last thing he sees before it all goes black.

 

*

“…back, now. Come on…”

 

Dean groans and feels something cool on his lips. He licks them and knows it’s water. “More,” he slurs, not knowing or caring much where he is. Why he’s there. Or even who’s here with him. The stream gets a little steadier and he coughs on the flow until he abruptly stops mid-breath when the fire in his side starts burning again. He cracks his eyes open and frowns when only one seems to cooperate.

 

Oh right. Swollen, probably. That’s going to be a hell of a black eye.

 

The guy squatting in front of him rocks back on his heels and blows out a breath. “Damn, son,” he murmurs. “Dying for a beating, ain’t ya?”

 

Through his one good eye, Dean glares at him, or tries to anyway. He’s pretty sure he’s a mess right now. Okay, he’s definitely a mess. “Who – “ he starts, and clears his throat. His jaw aches and he works his tongue over his teeth but can’t find any loose ones. Good. The guy pushes up on his knees and the motion is smooth, careful. He towers over Dean now in the… hallway? Where are they? Dean starts to panic now and struggles to get up, scrabbling against the wall he was propped against.

 

“Easy, take it easy,” the man holds up both hands where Dean can see them. “You might be feeling dizzy. Probably a concussion.” He waves his left hand at his own temple and Dean mirrors the gesture and winces when he finds a tender place. His hand comes away sticky with drying blood.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaks, and rolls his eyes at the guy pressing his lips together, clearly wanting to disagree. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” There. That was firmer, louder. It also made his head spin and unless the guy has a twin all of the sudden, he’s seeing double. Shit. “I might be…”

 

That’s all he gets out before his knees collapse under him and he can feel the other man grab his elbow to slow his fall. Dean’s unconscious again before he can tell if it did any good.

 

*

 

His ears are clearer this time. He can hear a steady beeping and the itchy, sore place on his hand where he knows there’s an IV. So, hospital. He must give something away even though he was positive he kept his breathing calm and body still because he hears a feminine voice close by.

 

“Alright, tiger, let’s see those pretty green eyes. Come on,” she coaxes, and Dean makes sure that the first thing he does when he gets his pretty green eyes open is to glare at her.

 

She’s on the taller side, hair pulled back into a neat bun showing off her tiny skull and crossbones earrings. Dean likes her immediately, but takes care to look as unimpressed as possible. “Yeah, yeah,” she scoffs. “Gonna have to try harder to scare me off. So, what do you want first? The good news or the bad?”

 

Her name is stitched into her white coat and she watches him with quirked lips as he reads. “Guess I’ll take the bad first, Alvarez.”

 

“That’s _Doctor_ Alvarez to you, wise guy,” she quips. One finger tucks a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear and she levels him with a stern look. “Two broken ribs,” she starts and Dean nods. Yeah, he figured. “Dislocated shoulder, four stitches.”

 

Dean frowns and gives his torso a glance. He didn’t know about the shoulder, or anything needing stitches. His confusion must show because the doctor taps her brow. Dean does the same and finds a rough patch of knotted thread about an inch from his eyebrow. Funny, he doesn’t remember bleeding there and head wounds always bleed like a sieve.

 

Alvarez is still talking and Dean catches something about a sprained ankle and a concussion. Well, the concussion isn’t a surprise. Which reminds him. “Hey,” he interrupts her and she pokes his leg with the pen she’s holding. “Sorry, but was there a guy?” There had to have been a guy, right? Dean remembers bits and pieces, fuzzy and unclear. Someone taking him out of the ring, warm hands. A kind voice.

 

She’s quiet and watching Dean and he appreciates it, still trying to work out his mind, which feels scrambled and slippery. Like if he tries too hard to catch the thought, it’ll fall through the spaces of his fingers like water. “He was tall?” He’s thankful when she doesn’t laugh.

 

“He was here earlier actually,” she tells him and makes a note on his chart. A nurse comes in with a Styrofoam cup and leaves it on the rolling table, smiling quickly at the doctor and warmly at Dean.

 

“Good to see you up, handsome,” the nurse winks and Dean manages a ghost of a smile before she’s gone again.

 

Alvarez nods to the cup. “Easy does it, okay, sport? Not too fast.” Dean reaches for it and flicks the IV line out of the way before it tangles around his arm. Oh, blessed ice chips. He pops one in his mouth and sucks on it, the cold numbing his tongue.

 

“So, how long,” Dean mumbles around the ice. He crunches it into pieces and swallows. “How long do I gotta be here?”

 

She laughs and it’s loud and high, would be contagious if Dean wasn’t nursing some broken ribs. “Aww,” she teases. “Trying to get away from me already?” Dean settles for winking at her and she sniffs theatrically. “Well, lucky for you I’m married so I won’t take offense.”

 

“No ring,” Dean tells her, and she waggles her bare left fingers at him. She pulls a necklace from her blouse and a gold ring dangles off of it. “Damn,” he murmurs and her grin shows off her crooked bottom teeth.

 

“Yeah, okay, you charmer.” She tucks his chart at the foot of his bed and pats the bed as she walks towards the door. “Just overnight,” she tells him and points to her head at his wrinkled frown. “We’ll monitor the concussion tonight and you can make a break for it tomorrow, I promise.” Alvarez waits for an elderly man clinging to an IV stand to shuffle by her before she steps out into the brightly lit hall. “Get some rest, Dean.”

 

He’s rolling another piece of ice in his mouth before he realizes he never told her his name. He’s hobbling across the room, holding his ribs and trying not to pull on the IV line as he reaches for his clothes folded on the little chest of drawers in the corner. His wallet falls out of the back pocket of his jeans and  he stares forlornly at it lying on the ground. He knows what’s in it. Fake ID, fake insurance card. The only thing not fake is the $27 and the single faded picture he has of Mom tucked in the back.

 

Dean nudges the wallet with his toes, wincing as the sprain makes itself known. He’s not expecting the hand that reaches down to scoop it up. In his surprise, he puts too much weight on his bad ankle and flails to catch something before he falls. He catches a warm, solid arm. He looks up to find him smiling. “Hey, it’s you,” he sputters as he rights himself and clutches at the back of his wide-open hospital gown.

 

“Yeah, it’s me,” the man chuckles. “I’m Steve. Good to meet you, Dean.”


	2. Destroy What Destroys You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's not the only one with a secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a few chapters written and the rest vaguely outlined so I should be getting these out pretty quick, barring unforeseen circumstances!

Steve’s kind enough to help Dean back to the bed and is enough of a gentleman not to chortle at Dean’s exposed rear end.

 

“Likewise,” he huffs, a little out of breath. The way his name is tagged on at the end of the introduction makes Dean pause for a moment, makes him think. “You were there, weren’t you? At the ring?” Dean knows it’s a lot more than that but he can’t get there just yet. He was stupid last night, careless and used his own name when he entered the ring. Steve must have heard it, so he must have been close. 

 

A nod and a pained smile. “I watched your fight,” Steve says by way of answering. “You leave yourself open here though,” he gestures to his side. “When you hook right.”

 

Dean thinks about that as he shifts on the bed, pulling that damn IV line out from under him. His right shoulder is the one that got dislocated so he doesn’t attempt to try it out, to see whatever it is Steve sees. “Huh,” he manages intelligently. “You fight?”

 

Steve’s fair skin blushes red and he looks caught out for some reason. “Um, well…” he trails off. Dean just gives him a look. Steve runs a hand through his blond hair uncomfortably. “Sometimes.”

 

“But not today,” Dean says, more of a statement than a question. Steve doesn’t look bruised up, not even a little, which means there’s no way he could have been in the ring tonight.  

 

“Not yesterday.” Steve rolls his wrist around and gives Dean a peek at his watch. It’s past midnight. Which should be long after visiting hours. As if Steve can hear his the direction of his thoughts, he shrugs and looks a little sheepish. “Honestly, I just walked in and no one stopped me. But I, uh, should get going. Let you get some rest.”

 

Dean nods and shoots a smile at Steve that he hopes conveys at least a little bit of his gratitude. “Thanks, man. Seriously.” Without him, Dean would probably be bleeding all over a dirty concrete floor still.

 

Steve’s quiet, but nods firmly and steps out of the room, disappears around the corner. Dean only wakes twice in the night, once to a not particularly quiet nurse making the rounds and the other to see Doctor Alvarez flipping through his chart in the early morning light. “Go home to your husband and quit tryin’ to flirt with me,” he rasps at her, voice thick and sleepy.

 

“You wish, hot stuff.” She presses a gentle thumb to his eyelid and waves a penlight in front of his eyes. “You’re looking good,” she murmurs and then laughs at Dean’s smug expression. “Okay, I walked right into that one.”

 

Dean’s acutely aware of his morning breath and tries to spare her when she leans close to slide bony brown fingers around his temple where he remembers the blood congealing in his hair back in the warehouse. “So, you gonna tell me how all this happened?” she asks as she steps back to scribble in his chart. “Or should I just take a wild guess?”

 

He shrugs, not particularly wanting to talk about it this early in the morning. Or ever, if he’s being honest. He wasn’t…in a good place last night.

 

It took him so long to pull himself together long enough to make the call, only for it to have gone to voicemail. His anger and shocked hurt when a text message came back instantly.

 

_Stop calling._

 

Stop calling. Stop calling?

 

“Hey, hey! Easy, there,” Alvarez’s voice filters through the rage. Dean’s aware of his hand gripping the over-starched sheets and the frantic beeping of the heart monitor. He deliberately loosens his fist and takes deep, even breaths. The beeping slows considerably to a less panicked rate. Alvarez’s hand hovers uncertainly above Dean’s and her eyebrows are making a reach for her hairline. “What happened?”

 

Dean manages to flash a smile. “Nothing, I’m good.”

 

“Super believable, cowboy,” Alvarez snorts. Her pager goes off and she glances down at it.  _Saved by the bell_ , Dean thinks wryly. “Okay,” she sighs. “Be right back.”

 

Dean waits until he can’t hear her footsteps anymore before he slides out of bed and wriggles into his jeans with some difficulty. His shoulder aches and his ankle protests his weight as he slides into his boots. One last check around the room and he strides out, keeping his hissing breaths quiet as he snatches a vase of flowers off the nurses’ station desk and cradles it in his good arm.

 

He walks right past the nurse who checked on him last night and pretends to smell the flowers when she glances past him. She doesn’t seem to recognize him and he turns the corner towards where he hopes the elevators are. A teenage girl smacking on her gum in a candy-striper outfit nearly bumps into him, eyes wide with surprise. Dean knows how rough he looks right now and he hands her the vase with a wink. “Give those to the nurses over there?” he smiles and walks away without a backward glance, trying to get out of here as fast as possible now.

 

He doesn’t see Steve again until a month’s gone by and his bruises have faded from purple to sickly green and yellow. His breathing is easier and he’s feeling good, stronger. Better in body if not in mind. 

 

Moving through the crowd now, he feels alive. It pulses and rages around him, feeding into his own adrenaline. He moves past the illicit drug deals, the money changing hands, the shadows parting. There's no law here, no rules but what's in the ring. No higher authority to ferret out what's going on here. He hears bets and jeers being called out. Someone waves a crisp $100 by his ear as he passes, yelling to someone. The warehouse smells of sweat and blood and the concrete floor is cold enough to seep through the soles of his shoes. He can smell the salt, the metallic tang of the docks and the slow moving water in the harbor nearby.

 

He loves this. He fucking loves it. Getting lost in the rush, the animalistic cruelty. He wants it all. Somewhere a tiny voice inside him tells him he's wrong, this is wrong. He shuts it down before it can get too loud. Not here for that, not now, not ever. 

 

Something big is happening tonight and he shoves and jostles his way to the edge. Front and center. That’s when he sees it. Or rather who.

 

Steve moves like a predator in the center of the ring. Deceptively easy and smooth. Until he strikes and Dean’s never seen anything like it. The sheer brutality is breathtaking and the guy across from Steve is down in five moves, blood dripping from a split lip and a suspicious wave in his cheek that can only mean it’s broken. His hip is already turning bright red and Dean knows it will be a riot of color in the morning. Steve is barely breathing hard and Dean somehow immediately recognizes the look on his face. The keen disgust, the anger and self-loathing that can only be directed inward.

 

Only then does Steve turn and appear to understand that he’s won. The crowd is so deafening and frenetic around Dean and it’s a wonder that Steve even sees him. But he does. And his face is pure shock before it crumples quietly into something akin to despair.

 

Dean jerks his head to the side and moves out of the crowd, sensing rather than knowing that Steve will follow eventually.

 

He waits patiently in the same corridor where he first saw Steve and isn’t disappointed when Steve comes through the side door about ten minutes later, unwrapping the tape on his hands as he walks. “Hey,” Dean calls and Steve starts at the sound bouncing and echoing through the hall.

 

“Hi. Dean.” He stops several feet away from Dean and looks somewhere between his nose and forehead. Dean can feel the discomfort radiating off of him.

 

“Some show you just put on out there,” Dean starts and Steve sighs, chews on his lip.

 

Steve doesn’t seem to know what to do with the tape bunched up in his hands and the soft sticking sound it makes as he passes it from hand to hand is the only noise between them. “I think…” he trails off for a few seconds. “I think I really didn’t want you to see me like that.”

 

The words sound stiff and forced and Dean frowns deeply. “I didn’t come here to see you,” he snaps, feeling irrationally angry about this for some reason. “I’m here a lot. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen you here. Man, the way you fight – “ His tone goes from angry to admiring in moments.

 

Steve puts a hand up and Dean stops, honestly surprised that he’s just been silenced like a child. He recovers quickly though and snorts at Steve. “What the hell is your problem, dude?”

 

“Look, I don’t do this often, okay?” Steve says, weirdly earnest. Like he really needs Dean to understand something.

 

“Whatever, man.” Dean’s done with this bizarre conversation and walks away. Refuses to give Steve another thought. 

 

Steve doesn’t try to call him back.

 

Two days later, Dean sees Steve’s face on the morning news and he spits out his coffee, making a mess of his shirt and the carpet under his feet. With wide, unblinking eyes, he takes in the words scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

 

_Captain America leads Avengers team to defeat rogue AIM robots in Central Park…_

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers. 


	3. Lay Out Your Flaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know Steve unsettles and surprises Dean.

Things are weird for a while. Dean doesn’t go back to the docks, feeling off-kilter from the events (okay, just from Steve), and his wallet starts feeling a little lighter. New York is too fucking expensive and even the fleabag motel he’s stashed away in is more than he can afford for very long.

 

He thinks about hunting, thinks about what’s _supposed_ to be done. What he should be doing. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth and he ignores it. He’s done with it. Done with that life. He walked away and that’s it. No more.

 

Except what’s a GED and give ‘em hell attitude worth these days anyway? Not much apparently. But things just have a way of turning into shit when Dean touches them. In the end, it’s not even the money that drives him back but that itchy feeling under his skin. The one he just can’t scratch.

 

The one he needs beaten out of him.

 

He gets his wish that night, and Steve (Christ, _Captain fucking America_ ) isn’t there, and Dean’s grateful. He barely walks away from that one. His wallet is heavy though, full of winning bets.

 

It feels wrong, shameful even, that Dean bet against himself that night, but he knew walking into the ring that he wouldn’t win. He was up against one of the Russians, tattooed and scarred and bigger than Dean. Bigger than Steve. Not that Dean is thinking about him.

 

His mind wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have been in the ring, could have been seriously hurt. Could have been… Could have been killed. Dean’s reflexes were slower than usual, and damn son of a bitch, wouldn’t you know it? His side was left open and unprotected when he tried to throw a right hook. The roundhouse kick to his ribs stole his breath and Dean imagined everyone in the warehouse could hear the sickening crack.

 

He tapped out after that.

 

The money lasts for a while longer and Dean isn’t sure anymore what he’s trying to do here. That’s thing about being injured. You got a lot of time to just sit around and think. And Dean hates that.

 

He finally dares to stop at a clinic to see if he can get any painkillers. He doesn’t want to risk another hospital but the ribs are probably broken again. Breathing is still fine though, relatively, so he doesn’t think he’s in danger of a pierced lung.

 

The clinic is busy and understaffed so he ends up waiting a long, long time to see anyone. A harried looking doctor finally sees him, palpates his sore ribs and then writes a prescription without saying much beyond, “Get plenty of rest.” Dean’s satisfied until the pharmacy he goes to informs him that the cost is more than he can afford. Fuck.

 

Dean folds the prescription slip carefully and tucks it into his wallet. He knows he could do other things right now to get the money. He hasn’t hustled pool in a while but he doubts he’s lost his touch. It’s just…hustling seems too tame in comparison. Not nearly exciting enough for him anymore. Dean’s pretty sure this isn’t a good mindset.

 

Any way you slice it though, he’s in just too much pain to fight again so soon after the last and a second injury on top of this could be career ending. Or worse. He’s at the docks anyway that night and watches the fights carefully. Makes small, careful bets all night long, never more than $20 on any one fight. He watches every fighter closely. Examining, learning, studying. By the time the night’s over, he walks away with enough money to pay for the painkillers and the motel for a few more nights. He also has a mind for nearly every regular fighter in the joint.

 

It’s not ideal, but it’s enough for now.

 

*

 

There’s a new text on Dean’s phone next time he looks at it and he can’t breathe for a moment. Panic and anger and guilt are too much, too strong. It takes him an hour before he can open it.

 

It’s not what he thought. At all.

 

_It’s Steve. Can we meet?_

 

Another hour before Dean picks his jaw off the floor. Captain fucking America just texted him? How? Why? What the fuck? He thinks he’s fairly believable in his unaffected, cool response though.

 

_Sure. Where?_

 

Simple. To the point. Dean only wants to puke every time he thinks about it. He prays Steve doesn’t want to meet at the docks because it feels wrong for some reason. Captain America beating guys to bloody pulps in an abandoned warehouse on the New York harbor every week? Dean would have laughed if he knew better. If he hadn’t seen it firsthand.

 

Steve doesn’t respond for an entire day and Dean would be worried that his simple, direct reply was offensive in some way but rationally, he knows not much can be gleaned from a two word text. His phone pings when he’s in the shower and he forces himself to keep rinsing the soapsuds off his body. Only when he’s dried and dressed does he flip open the phone.

 

It’s just an address and if 3 o’clock is okay for tomorrow.

 

He starts to reply “sure” but realizes he’s already said that once. _See you then_ is what he settles for and he sets an alarm for 2:30pm. It’s not necessary in the end because he goes to scope out the place at 10:45 the next morning. A coffee shop. It’s just a coffee shop in Brooklyn.

 

Not even a particularly nice one at that. Kind of grungy and rundown. He wonders if that’s why Steve picked it. He also wonders why he feels so odd about seeing Captain America in such a place. Like he’d be soiled or something.

 

Dean walks around the city for a while trying to kill time. Buys a big, soft pretzel dotted with salt specks at a cart and eats it as he walks. It feels a little too luxurious and lavish for him and he’s only about half way through it before it turns to ash in his mouth and he tosses the rest in the nearest garbage can. He doesn’t deserve something so nice.

 

It sours his mood and he’s little more than a black cloud as he stalks back to the coffee shop. His watch tells him it’s 2:29 as he swings open the door and tightly smiles at the waitress welcoming him and a minute later his alarm starts buzzing. He slides into a booth near the back and switches the alarm off, but leaves the phone lying on the table.

 

“Just coffee,” he tells the woman when she swings by a couple of minutes after he settles and she snatches a cup and saucer for him. She’s on her way back with a fresh pot when Steve steps through the door. He catches Dean’s eye and makes his way towards him. The waitress smiles at him, friendly and familiar, and Steve gives her a small grin in return.

 

Steve quirks his lips at him. “Didn’t think you’d be early,” is what he says, but Dean hears _didn’t think you’d show_. He tries to keep it together, not going off on a perceived (nonexistent) slight, so Dean doesn’t say anything at all. Stirs his coffee quietly and waits until Steve has a cup of his own and the waitress has left again.

 

“So what can I do for you, Captain?”

 

Steve’s mouth puckers, irritated. “Don’t do that,” he says quietly, forcefully, and the atmosphere changes instantly to something almost palpably tense. “Right now I’m Steve. Just Steve.”

 

It’s a long while before either says anything more. Dean gets tired of waiting and lets his spoon loudly clatter on the table. “Alright, what can I do for you, _Steve_?”

 

“Did you always know?” Steve asks, and if he picks up on Dean’s meanness, he doesn’t show it. “Did you know in the hospital? Or the docks?”

 

It’s not…exactly where he thought the conversation would go so he takes a sip of coffee to recalibrate his thoughts, his planned responses. The coffee is good, dark and sweet, and he must show his surprise.

 

“Good, right?” Steve smiles, and for a moment Dean doesn’t hate him. He looks like any other good-looking young guy out there. Maybe a little wholesome for Dean’s taste but handsome all the same.

 

Instead of answering, Dean shakes his head and jerks his chin towards Steve. “Saw you on the news. Couple days after the last fight.”

 

Steve’s mouth forms a tiny _O_ and he holds his coffee cup in both absurdly large hands. The dark liquid sloshes slightly over the rim and a drop runs down Steve’s finger.

  
Dean is fascinated.

 

This is _Captain America_. The first time Dean ever read the comic books was in some godforsaken part of Kentucky when he was in grade school. Someone had left the comic in the drawer between the two beds in the motel. He loved it. Someone heroic and brave and strong. Even more than his dad. That was a heady thought for a nine year old. There was someone out there who had been everything to Dean at one point and it wasn’t the man he followed blindly for years. No, it was the Captain.

 

To be honest, he hadn’t kept up much with the news of his return. It should have meant more to him but at the time, he was spiraling in a terrific storm of righteous anger and indignation. It sort of slipped his mind, he supposes, and he can forgive himself for not paying more attention to the fuss.

 

“How long have you been in New York?” Steve asks and Dean has to keep scrambling to keep up. He thought this conversation would be only about the fights – it’s the only thing they have in common as far as he knows and this is weird. It feels like two guys having a cup of coffee together. So mundane. So…normal.

 

Dean hasn’t had normal in a long time and he chooses his words carefully. He’s been on his own for too long, the only conversation he’s had is a few words here and there to waitresses or the motel manager when he pays up every few days. He supposes he says some stuff to the guys in the ring, but trash talk probably doesn’t count here. “About three months,” he decides finally. He prays Steve doesn’t ask _why_ he’s in New York. He’s not sure he could explain it, even to himself.

 

The waitress comes back around to fill their cups again and Steve thanks her softly. Dean says nothing.

 

“Look, I just didn’t want you to think I do that stuff often, you know?” And there it is – the conversation Dean assumed they would be having in the first place.

 

He shrugs carelessly. “You said that before. It’s none of my business though, man. What you do in your spare time’s up to you.” He shrugs again and this time it feels more forced. The thing of it is that Dean wants to feel a little cheated, betrayed. Shouldn’t Captain America – sorry, _Steve_ – be rescuing kittens in his free time? No old ladies need help carrying their groceries around here?

 

There’s something magnetic about Steve that keeps Dean in his seat. He wants to leave, wants to stand up, walk away, and never think about Steve again, but he can’t. Not yet.

 

He’s glad he stayed put when Steve starts talking again. “Things…haven’t been easy these days. For me.” He looks up to make sure Dean’s listening and when Dean gives a slow nod, he continues. “This place used to be a tailor shop and I worked here for a winter. Needed the money and I always had quick fingers,” he laughs like it’s an old joke, one he’s told a thousand times before. Dean smiles briefly and Steve sobers. “I know it’s not real, but in the winter, I still feel the chest pains, think I have trouble breathing.” He presses a hand to his chest.

 

Dean processes that. He knew, of course, that Captain America didn’t always look like this but it seems beyond the realm of believability, even for someone like Dean who has seen and done just about everything. “So that’s why you do it? Because you’re not a little guy anymore?”

 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “No, of course not.” He shakes his head and a piece of blond hair flops down over his eye. When he slicks it back, the little wrinkle is still there, like he’s eaten something bitter. “I don’t spend all my time in New York, you know.”

 

The way Steve’s mind works is beyond Dean. He keeps jumping from one point to the next with little to no connection and only he seems to know where he’s going with it. Dean’s just getting dizzy trying to keep up. “Uh-huh,” he mumbles around a sip. “What about it?”

 

“Spent some time in DC and met a guy down there. He turned out to be a good friend but he suggested maybe I have, what’s it called? PTSD?”

 

“Oh.” Dean’s squirms a little in his seat. Making Captain America – God, _Steve_ – more human is unsettling. It’s like seeing the man behind the curtain, or in this case, the man behind the shield. Either way, Dean isn’t sure if he likes it.

 

Another twist to Steve’s perfect features. “We called it shell shocked, back in the day. I guess I didn’t think of it, not really. Things happened but I thought I’d get over it by now.”

 

“I know a thing or two about it,” Dean says roughly, and Steve makes a gentle _go on_ motion with his hand. “It doesn’t go away, not like that,” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “I just. I know, okay.”

 

The thing is though, Dean doesn’t know. He had his suspicions post-hell, post-purgatory. Post-whatever the hell else he’s been up to since Dad left. Never talked to anyone but Sam about it, and even then, Dean kept it vague. So reluctant to ever show weakness.

 

A few silent moments pass between them and Steve stands, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m on my way out of the country for a while,” he tells Dean as he throws a few bills on the table. More than what’s needed to cover his coffee alone and Dean starts to protest. “Nah, I invited you out. Least I can do. But listen, can we meet again?”

 

Dean can’t help the warm feeling somewhere in his chest. Steve is so earnest, it’s almost embarrassing and Dean gives a quick nod. “See you when you get back.”

 

By the time Dean drains the last of his coffee, Steve’s out the door and past Dean’s line of sight. And if he spends the rest of the afternoon in the public library reading about PTSD, well, no one’s around to know.

 

He ignores the little pinch in his chest when he reads something that sounds like him. He’s good at ignoring things.


	4. Ain't No God On These Streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's no saint - he's done things and they haunt him still. The fighting quiets his mind, just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoot, I'm really sorry about the wait. Real life has been super busy and I also kinda didn't want to write this chapter. Better things ahead, I promise!

It’s a long time before Dean sees Steve again. That is, until he sees him in person. Steve shows up on CNN once and a video clip of a reporter asking him questions about the Avengers’ latest battle goes viral. Whatever that means. Dean just sees it when he’s on the library computer one day. He doesn’t have headphones so he doesn’t listen to whatever Steve is saying, but he looks okay. Not too banged up.

 

Dean can’t say the same for himself. Three more fights, a broken nose, and two fingers popped out of joint, not to mention the seriously impressive range of bruises he’s sporting.

 

He pecks at the keyboard with his index fingers until his neck hurts from bending over and his eyes feel strained. When he straightens up, his back pops loudly in the quiet space and the librarian glances over. She doesn’t say anything though so Dean pays no attention to her and grabs his jacket.

 

New York is awful in the winter, Dean thinks. It’s cold, but there’s no snow. Only muddy sludge that sticks to his boots and stains the hem of his jeans. His jacket isn’t quite enough to ward off the chill either. All in all, it’s a pretty miserable month for Dean.

 

His heart doesn’t skip a beat the next time he gets a text until he realizes the phone isn’t buzzing with a notification but actually ringing. Captain America is _calling_ him.

 

“Dean?” The voice on the other end is fuzzy and breaks. “Can you hear me?”

 

“Hey, yeah,” Dean says and tries to speak up. “Steve! Are you there?”

 

The call drops and Dean rubs his forehead in irritation. He waits three minutes and then dials the number back. This time it’s clearer and Steve sounds relieved.

 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to call while I was in the tunnel.” He chuckles and Dean smiles into the phone.

 

“No probl- Hey, wait, the Lincoln Tunnel? You’re back in the city?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer right away and Dean strains to hear. It sounds like someone’s with him, but Dean can’t make it out. Voices in the background. Not Steve but…two others? He can’t tell. “Yeah, back home now,” Steve says finally after an extended silence. “You busy?”

 

That gives Dean pause. Technically, he’s not doing anything right now, but he is planning on the docks tonight. He’s feeling mean. “No,” he replies slowly. “What do you have in mind?”

 

He must pick up on Dean’s reluctance because he waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, man. Just checking in.”

 

“No, wait.” Dean doesn’t want to hang up just yet. Hearing Steve’s voice is, well, it’s nice, okay? He can admit that. “I’ll, uh, text you?” There’s a pause and Dean can hear the wheels turning in Steve’s head. It’s not that he’s being coy – he really just doesn’t have another plan right now. He needs a minute to think of something. Something more normal than men beating the shit out of each other on cold concrete floors.

 

Steve agrees and hangs up quickly. Dean thinks he hears a woman’s voice before the call ends.

 

Did he say he was feeling mean? He’s feeling downright nasty.

 

*

 

In the end, he can’t think of anything because he hasn’t done a lot of touristy things in New York, even though he’s been skulking around for months now. He sticks to the library, the motel, the docks, a few diners near each of those. It hasn’t been the most enriching few months for him. He texts Steve to meet him at the Central Park Zoo and has absolutely no idea why he picked it.

 

Steve sends him back a smiley face emoticon and Dean stares blankly. It’s still hard for him to separate _Steve_ from _Captain America_ and these little reminders that Steve is just a guy are really fucking with Dean’s worldview.

 

Eventually, Steve finds him in front of the polar bear enclosure and he’s twenty-three minutes late. Rationally, Dean could give him a little leeway since he didn’t wait for Steve at the entrance and just walked around aimlessly. He knew Steve would find him and he was right. Dean just isn’t rational right now.

 

This was a bad idea.

 

“Hey,” Steve calls, jogging towards him and Dean doesn’t reply, hands shoved in his coat. The polar bear gives them a disinterested look before flopping onto his belly. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

Distantly, Dean appreciates that Steve left it at that and didn’t mention anything about Dean being hard to find or something. That positive thought withers when Steve speaks again.

 

“You okay, man? You look…” he doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

The polar bear lifts his head and Dean swears the look on his furry face is the universal glare of “shut the fuck up”. Fascinating.

 

“Just peachy,” he grinds out and Steve’s eyebrows cinch together in a frown before smoothing again. He doesn’t believe Dean. “I’m _fine_ ,” he says, enunciating each word. Steve just holds his hands up in surrender.

 

“No problem. You, uh, come here often?”

 

Dean can’t help the chuckle that escapes. Maybe it was a new line back in the 40s. Maybe Steve has no idea how over used it is. Maybe…he knows exactly what he’s doing based on the smug grin he’s sporting. Dean lets out another snort. Clever.

 

It works though and Dean relaxes ever so slightly. Surely he can leave his goddamn baggage at home for one day right?

 

For a while, he even thinks he has. Steve is charming in a bashful way that Dean figures out is entirely an act. He’s actually a little shit and so like every other twenty-something guy Dean’s ever met that it should be hysterical. Breaking news even. _Captain America is a normal guy – who knew?!_

 

Sometimes he’ll slip up and a phrase will work its way into the conversation that Dean has never heard before. Or the Brooklyn accent comes out thick on certain words. When he laughs, Dean laughs, even if he tries not to. But he also has good qualities that Dean associates with people far too good for him.

 

When he sees the monkeys dangling on their rope jungle gyms and he smiles wryly and nudges Dean. “Y’think they train them?”

 

It’s a strange comment that puzzles Dean and he turns it over in his mind for a while as they walk. He pokes at it like a kid with a loose tooth, wiggling it back and forth. Those are the times Steve makes him uncomfortable. Inane little asides that should mean nothing but Dean thinks they mean a lot more than Steve lets on. And he doesn’t particularly like how these comments could almost be about Dean himself.

 

Their somewhat pleasant afternoon comes crashing down when a woman brushes by them in a panic. She doesn’t apologize and they both turn to stare after her, recognition dawning when she scoops up a little girl, no more than five or so, who had been partially hidden by the black metal trashcan a few yards away. “Sammy, don’t scare me like that!”

 

Steve smiles and moves to leave the scene, but Dean is frozen, muscles rigid. He can’t hear Steve calling his name.

 

_Sammy, don’t run off like that. Jesus, dad’ll kill me._

_Sam, please don’t leave. We’re a family._

_Sam, don’t you get it? You’re my brother._

“Sammy,” he whispers. The grip on his arm is just this side of too tight and he glances down in bewilderment. “What?”

 

“Do you know them?” Steve isn’t letting Dean go yet and now that the shock is wearing off, he’s irritated. At Steve some, but more at himself.

 

“No, I don’t know them,” he snaps. “Get the hell off of me.”

 

Steve lets him go and backs up a step, giving Dean some space. His eyes are watchful though and Dean feels his skin itching. Only the fact that they’re in public is keeping him from doing something highly inadvisable. Like slugging Captain goddamn America.

 

It takes a moment and three good deep breaths before he calms a little. “I’m fine,” he says, unprompted.

 

“So you said,” Steve replies. It’s wary, not as friendly. Cautious, somehow. “Do you…” he clears his throat and Dean keeps taking deep breaths, silent and waiting. “Do you know someone named Sammy?” It’s questioning and hesitant, like he’s feeling his way around a landmine.

 

It’s not an inaccurate metaphor.

 

Which is why Dean really isn’t sure why he actually tells him. “My brother. Sam.”

 

It’s been so long since he’s said that name. It’s a rush of familiarity and _home_ , followed by a wave of bitterness, anger, all the feelings he’s been trying to repress. And when he can’t repress them, he gets them beat out of him.

 

How is he ever supposed to tell this story? How does a person carry their worst day with them?

 

How do you tell someone that the man you loved is dead because of you? How do you tell them it’s because you chose your brother instead?

 

“I haven’t seen him in two years. Two years…to the day.” The anniversary of the worst day of Dean’s life and he’s with Captain America watching a polar bear take a nap. It’s too hilarious for words.

 

Steve chews on his lip and it’s pink and shiny when he starts to speak again. “Does he know you’re in New York?” He seems to be picking his words carefully. Still feeling around that landmine, knowing it’s there but unsure of where the trip wire could be.

 

“No,” Dean tells him gruffly. He wants to be done with this conversation, but oh God, at the same time. At the same time…

 

The burden is too much to keep carrying like this. Alone, day after day. Year after year. Maybe it’s because Steve has a kind face. Maybe it’s because he’s been nice to Dean. Maybe Dean trusts him.

 

“He’s not gonna talk to me,” he continues. “Not after everything.”

 

Words keep spilling out of him like a cup overflowing. It’s all been too much for him. His cup is full, it’s at capacity. It’s spilling over the edges.

 

“Everything?” Steve asks quietly, prompting. He’s still, hands resting by his sides. A finger brushes the crease in his slacks and Dean watches the movement, unwilling to look Steve in the eye yet.

 

Dean shakes his head. “You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know what I am.” Any second now, any moment Dean is going to burst apart at the seams. _Shut up!_ one part of his brain screams. He pays no heed, barreling along now that the words are out. Now that someone is listening.

 

“We got into a mess – no one was walking out alive, you get me? We were fucked, plain and simple. And B- Benny, he shouldn’t have gotten involved. He should have walked away, left me.” He doesn’t realize he’s started pacing until he loses sight of Steve for a moment. “Don’t you get it?” he’s pleading now.

 

_It was a fucking nest and they walked right into it. It’s a barn, but there’s no farm equipment, nothing sharp lying around. Dean’s almost out of ammo and Sam is bleeding from a cut near his ear. The vamps are licking their lips at him, cackling and howling. Taunting._

_The barn is dark, but they weren’t out here to hunt vampires. Sloppy, careless, Dean berates himself. It had been a lead on a case – nothing fancy, just something they thought would be good for them. Something normal for a change. Leave all the fucking angels behind and their bullshit politics. Let them squabble all they want. Disturbing the vamps had not been on the night’s agenda._

_“Mmm, what have we got here,” one of the females purrs and she’s too close for comfort, her eyes glittering in the darkness. Dean’s eyes are still trying to adjust and he can’t follow her quick little movements as she darts around them. He swipes at her and misses, bringing loud jeers from all corners of the barn._

_“Dean, don’t,” Sam warns and his hand is holding a piece of his shirt torn off to try and staunch the bleeding. Even Dean can smell the coppery scent this close._

_“Come here, you bitch, and we’ll see,” he growls back. He starts badly when she whispers from behind him._

_“Oh, I am, sweetie. I am.” Sam makes a strangled noise and jerks wildly. He comes close to smacking her with his flailing hand, but she dances back, laughing._

_Dean scoots closer to Sam, still keeping her in his sights as much as he can. “It’s okay,” Sam pants. “She just got right up on me.”_

_Someone drops heavily to the ground from the loft above and Dean points his gun in that direction. “Enough, Carrie,” the voice says, sounding lazy and bored. She stops though and goes slinking back into the darkness. Dean caresses the trigger and waits._

_His focus is split and he reacts too late when Sam slams to the ground and yowls in pain. “Dean!” he cries out, and Dean spins, torn between keeping the rest of them at bay and finding Sam. He can’t see him anymore and he calls out for him._

_“Sammy!”_

_“So, the notorious Dean Winchester,” the voice continues on, sounding for all the world like he’s reading a grocery list. “Come to pay us a little visit, hmm?”_

_Dean scoffs. “Yeah, it’s been swell, so how ‘bout we call this one a day, huh fellas?”_

_He wouldn’t normally back down so quickly, but their flashlights are gone, his gun is all but useless here, he can’t see or hear Sam anymore, and he can’t see a fucking thing. The cloudy night isn’t even affording them a sliver of moonlight to peek through the cracks of the barn._

_His gun is still pointed toward the general direction of the voice and his ears are straining to hear for Sam, hear for what’s going on._

_“Dean,” someone says from somewhere to his right. No, not someone. Benny. He sounds weary, but it’s him. Smooth voice a little rougher than usual but he exhales sharply at the sound. What is he doing here? No, no, no, this cannot be happening._

_“Yeah, who’s that?” He’s all bravado, but inside he’s thinking, keep your mouth shut. Don’t say anything. Be quiet. Walk away from this._

_There’s tittering and laughter coming from the loft before he hears several more thumps to the ground and then there’s a struggle he hears but can’t see. “Ah, so you know our new friend, then?” It’s the first voice, their leader. “How touching.”_

_God, he wants to just shoot and hit someone but what if he hits Benny? What if he hits Sam? His palms are damp with sweat and little beads roll down his temples. Surely every one of them can hear his heart thundering in his chest right now._

_The taunts and jeers go on and he does his best to shove them away when he feels them getting too near. He’s starting to panic. He can’t hear Sam anymore and Benny hasn’t said anything. The breath leaves him in a loud swoosh when he’s tackled to the ground. He hits his head and his ears ring. Little stars would probably be dancing around in front of his eyes if he could see anything at all. “Dean!”_

_He thinks it’s Sam at first, head still swimming from the impact. Until the hands cradle him gently. “You’re okay, Dean,” Benny whispers softly. “Hey, hey, look here,” he calls before they’re dragged apart._

_It’s a long night._

_They make him choose in the end, save Sam or save Benny. His eyes adjusted enough to see Sam struggling futilely against two vamps holding him down, one’s fangs inching closer and closer to his brother’s pulsing carotid. On the other side, they have Benny. Standing quietly, not struggling, not fighting. He looks resigned, like he knows what Dean’s going to do._

_“Sam,” he says into the darkness._

_He’s thankful he doesn’t see them tear Benny to pieces, but he can feel the spray of blood that spattered across his cheek. He wakes up even still, scrubbing at his cheek in the middle of the night. Hears their echoing snickers._

_Benny’s blood isn’t just on his hands. He’s soaked in it._

He’s breathing hard, only vaguely registering that he’s having a panic attack until Steve hauls him to a bench nearby. “Breathe,” he instructs, rubbing Dean’s back. It feels good and Dean doesn’t want it.

 

Steve distracts him by pointing out the antics of the penguins and Dean’s grateful they have the enclosure to themselves for a minute. His big, warm hand still rests on Dean’s back long after it’s all over and he stands up abruptly. “I chose him,” he says, pleads. He’s desperate for Steve to hear this. For someone to listen. “I always choose my brother. He just doesn’t always choose me.”

 

And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Dean thinks. He nods once, turns on his heel, and walks away, ignoring Steve calling after him.

 

*

 

Now that the story’s in the open (or as much as it can be, given that Dean only told one person), Dean holes up in the motel and doesn’t come out for days. There are so many things unanswered for him still. Why was Benny even there in the first place? Why had Sam stopped talking to him? Why had he stopped answering Dean’s calls?

 

He had to go back and kill them all, doesn’t Sam understand that? And he needed to mourn Benny. But Sam apparently didn’t understand any of it.

 

When he finally peers out of his hiding hole, he feels vulnerable, alone for too long right after the zoo. He turned his phone off and didn’t even bother to check how many times Steve called. Someone knows his secret and he can’t stand it.

 

Small surprise that he ends up back at the docks that night, skin feeling prickly, like there was a live wire running electricity through his veins. He bounces on his toes when he tells them he’s fighting tonight.

 

He pushes his way into the ring ahead of the guy trying to get in first, shoving him hard, when he sees who’s on the other side. Things couldn’t be more perfect. Steve stands there blinking at him, surprise, confusion, understanding, and anger all flitting across his pretty all-American face. The crowd has so much energy tonight, screams and the rhythmic pounding of feet surge though Dean, carrying him.

 

Dean slaps his chest and feels the skin warm with the impact. “Come on,” he growls at Steve, who is trying desperately to get out of the ring.

 

The crowd is too thick and pushes him back towards Dean. _Fight, fight_ , they all howl. Music to Dean’s ears.

 

“No way,” Steve hisses through gritted teeth. It’s the only thing he says before Dean rushes him.

 

He gets a single punch in that hurts his hand more than it seems to hurt Steve. He sucks a breath through his teeth and tries again. Steve easily knocks him aside. “Dean, stop!” he yells, and it’s such a stern, commanding voice that sounds so fucking much like Dad that he almost does. But he’s not finished here yet.

 

Dean feints left and then drops to the ground to swipe Steve’s legs from under him. He fails spectacularly. Steve, apparently having enough of Dean’s pathetic attempts, grabs him and rolls them over and over until Dean’s laying on top of Steve, his back to Steve’s heaving chest. Steve’s legs hook around his calves and an arm comes around his middle, pinning his arms by his side.

 

He’s completely immobile, fighting hard to get free but failing. He lifts his head and slams it backward, hoping to catch Steve in the nose, make him let go by reflex. Steve’s grunt of pain tells Dean that he hit his mark and for a second all he hears is the white noise of the crowd but the swinging fluorescent light above blinds him and distracts him long enough that Steve gets his other arm around Dean’s neck and starts squeezing. He’s lucid long enough to hear, “Dean, I’m so sorry, forgive me,” and the last thought that goes through his mind is, _son of a bitch is choking me out_.

 

Darkness rushes to meet him and he welcomes the oblivion with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to the Central Park Zoo. Do they have polar bears and penguins and monkeys? I assume they do??


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the fight, Dean is raw and unsure of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone for the wait. Real life has been hectic and writing hasn't been as cathartic as I hoped it would be, so I kept putting it off.
> 
> But I did put the Hawkeyes in here (because if you follow my blog you know what Hawkeye trash I am) - and I'm sure MCU!Clint is perfectly lovely but Hawkeye will always be 616!Clint for me. Plus, who doesn't love Kate Bishop?

The thing is, Steve isn’t sure how this even happened. He looks down at the man limp in his arms and shakes his head in disbelief. Well, he knows how _this_ happened, but since meeting Dean, it’s been too strange for words.

 

His good days are better – more frequent, less manic. His bad days are still there but it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.

 

Steve supposes that could be the tagline to his life, but for right now, it just applies to him and Dean. Who is still unconscious and it’s worrying Steve just a little. He doesn’t remember leaving the ring, doesn’t remember pushing past the crowd, walking out into the chilled air. He does remember almost slipping on a wet patch on the docks and becoming acutely aware of the body in his arms as he clutched Dean tighter and willed himself not to fall, to drop him.

 

Dean is thin under his clothes, and it surprises Steve. He always looks bulkier, maybe the jackets and the flannel help with that, but Steve would have never guessed him to be so feather light. Maybe his perspective is a little skewed. Whatever’s going on, he needs to get them both out of the cold night and indoors. It’s not until he’s in front of his building that he realizes he came here because he has absolutely no idea where Dean stays.

 

In fact, he doesn’t really know a lot about Dean at all. Just because he shared his darkest memories doesn’t mean that Steve knows anything about him. Everyone has scary, shadowy things in their past that they’d rather forget. Steve knows he certainly does.

 

His apartment is small, here in Brooklyn, but he likes it that way. He probably could afford something bigger but too much space would just remind him how alone he is. He doesn’t need more empty corners to fill with ghosts. He’s got enough of them as it is.

 

He jiggles open his front door with a struggle, thankful Dean seems to be out cold because this would classify as a very awkward moment if he’d woken up what with Steve hunched over him, balancing Dean’s body on the crook of one arm and a raised knee, swearing under his breath as he tried to get the door open.

 

Steve starts to lay him on the single couch in his living room, but ends up tucking him into his own bed. He’s not sure, and even dares to lay his ear against Dean’s chest to check for a heartbeat because he’s so still, but Steve thinks he may be asleep now.

 

The sun is just starting to come up and Steve hasn’t slept at all, his eyes feeling gritty and sore. It’s not until about half past six that he realizes he doesn’t have a single thing to offer Dean when he wakes up. Not even coffee. In a panic, he pokes his head through the bedroom door to make sure Dean’s still asleep, jots a quick note and sticks it to the doorframe.

 

_Gone to get breakfast. Please stay. – Steve_

He’s out the door before he can think too much about it. And he hopes like hell Dean stays until he gets back.

 

He just turns the corner when he runs smack into a familiar face. “Clint! Uh, hi. Or um, good morning.” He stumbles over the words in his embarrassment, though he has honestly no idea why he feels so sheepish.

 

Clint, of course, looks happy to see him with his crooked grin. “What’re you doin’ out so early, Cap?” Steve always thought Clint’s Midwestern drawl was more pronounced in the mornings. He gestures to the girl next to him and it’s only then Steve notices the dog trying to sniff his feet. “You know Katie, right?”

 

“Of course,” he smiles at her and extends a hand. “Nice to see you again, Kate.”

 

Her hand is strong and calloused and she gifts him with a sweet, “You too, Captain.” He waves her off and insists that he’s just Steve right now. The dog allows Steve to pet him for a couple of seconds before he lies down at Clint’s feet, huffing in annoyance that their walk had been interrupted.

 

“I’m, uh,” he starts, clears his throat and tries again. “I’m going to get some stuff. For breakfast.”

 

Everyone perks up at the idea and that’s how the Hawkeyes came over (invited themselves) for breakfast.

 

*

 

His mouth is dry, like he’s been chewing on cotton, and the first thing he sees when cracks his eyes open is a glass of water on the nightstand. He sits up and gulps at it greedily, and it’s not until he’s nearly halfway through the glass that he notices the girl sitting on the end of the bed.

 

Dean sputters and gets water all over his chin and hands as he tries to set the glass down again. “Uh,” is all he manages through his coughing.

 

She’s slight, shiny black hair tied in a messy topknot, and she’s flipping through a magazine that’s resting on her folded legs. “Hi,” she chirps and gives him a smug look he doesn’t understand. “I’m Kate.”

 

“Hello, Kate,” he replies uncertainly. He doesn’t remember bringing anyone back with him last night and…actually he doesn’t remember last night at all. The docks, Steve, oh. The fight. It’s coming back to him now. “Steve is…?”

 

Kate makes an admiring noise at something she sees in the magazine. “He’s here,” she tells him, distracted. She folds the corner of the page down and tosses it aside, giving him all of her attention now. Dean is acutely aware of his bare feet for some reason and curls them under the blanket. “That’s so cute you call him Steve.”

 

“That’s his name isn’t it?” he answers, bewildered. His confusion doesn’t end when a man sticks his head through the door and a dog pads in, squeezing by him to jump on the bed. Its weight nearly bounces Kate off the bed and she _tsks_ at him.

 

“Down, Luck.”

 

The other man steps in to grab the dog and gives Dean a friendly wave. “I thought I heard Katie talkin’ in here. Thought I’d come see if she woke you up. I’m Clint, by the way.”

 

Dean notices that Clint and Kate have matching bandages dotting their exposed skin and he smiles a little despite himself. “Um, Dean. I’m Dean.” It takes him a second before he thinks of something. “Clint like Hawkeye?”

 

He doesn’t think he imagines the pleased look he gets in return. “That’s us,” Clint tells him proudly.

 

“Us?”

 

Kate chimes in, “I’m the better Hawkeye.” She rolls off the bed and Clint slings an arm around her and she pokes him in the ribs.

 

“She is,” he informs Dean solemnly. “Alright, girly-girl, let’s leave Cap and his friend. Besides, he can’t make coffee for shit.” He puts way too much emphasis on _friend_ and Dean doesn’t miss Kate’s shudder.

 

“I think it’s his one and only flaw. Come on, Hawkeye.” She ducks out from under Clint’s arm and they both wave good-bye at Dean. He barely gets out a “nice to meet you” before they’re gone. The dog wags his tail at Dean and Dean just stares at him.

 

Dean edges around him trying to find his boots, and when he bends over to snag them from the foot of the bed, the dog _woofs_ at him and stretches lazily. He hears the front door slam open. “Oops. Lucky!” Kate calls and the dog – Lucky, apparently – smacks Dean in the face with his tail as he scrambles on the hardwood floor, nails clacking in his rush to get to her. “Bye!” she yells and Dean can hear Steve’s chuckle.

 

“Hey,” he says, and then, “What are you doing on the floor?” Steve looks concerned and Dean holds up a shoe in reply.

 

“Morning.” He finishes tying his boots before he stands up, knees cracking, and he gives Steve a small, uncertain smile. He feels tender, exposed. Like a patch of newly healing skin. Steve picks up on the tension and doesn’t come any closer than the doorway.

 

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I made breakfast, if you’re interested.”

 

Dean almost says no, but his stomach gives a loud rumble and he grins, sheepish. “Sounds good.”

 

Steve nods, satisfied, and backs out of the room. It gives Dean a minute to breathe and he ducks into the bathroom. He takes a piss and unfortunately, catches his own eye in the mirror as he’s washing his hands and face. He feels unrecognizable – eyes held in only by the dark circles underneath and several days’ worth of scruff covering his jaw. He looks rough, feels rough. Really, he wants a shower but he doesn’t dare. Steve’s bathroom is so clean, it’s nearly spotless, and Dean, well, he isn’t.

 

When he finds Steve again, not hard since his apartment borders on what some would call tiny, he’s a little better. He watched his face in the bathroom mirror until he was satisfied with his attempt at a neutral expression. The last thing he needs right now is to look as vulnerable as he feels.

 

“I hope you like French toast,” Steve says as he slides a stack onto a plate. “And I have coffee, too.” He picks up a mug and gives Dean a questioning look when Dean laughs.

 

“Your friends, they uh, don’t think much of your coffee-making skills.” He laughs harder when Steve rolls his eyes, exasperated.

 

“They’re not really, um – they’re snobs when it comes to coffee,” he informs Dean. “Don’t listen to them. My coffee is just fine.” He pours Dean a cup and Dean whispers a thanks.

 

He tastes it and it is actually fine. There’s sugar on the table and Dean dumps a spoonful into the mug, gives it another sip and decides it’s better. “It’s fine,” he announces, and Steve tilts his head in acknowledgement.

 

“Told you.”

 

They eat quietly, the only sounds are their forks on the plates and Dean firmly doesn’t think about how long it’s been since he’s had home-cooked anything. He speaks without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he says, wincing at how loud his voice seems in the silence.

 

Steve lays his fork down and pushes his plate back so he can rest an elbow on the table. He doesn’t say anything though, and Dean plows on.

 

“I’m sorry about last night. For everything, I shouldn’t have done that.”

 

The thing is, Dean has done a lot of apologizing in his life. Dad, Sam, they always seemed to brush his words off, like they didn’t accept it. Benny, well, he brushed it off because he told Dean he had nothing to be sorry for. Steve, though. Steve is different.

 

“I’m sorry, too.” So much power in those words, asking for forgiveness, and Dean hates it, hates that Steve thinks he has anything to be sorry for. But at the same time, it settles something in him. Dean hasn’t been on this side of an apology in a while and he wants to find the right words. Nothing comes to him. He doesn’t want to thank Steve or say that it’s okay, but _I forgive you_ makes it sound like Dean isn’t at fault here.

 

His hand clenches under the table and he meets Steve’s eyes. “Friends?”

 

Steve’s relieved sigh and smile makes Dean feel like an ass. Like Steve ever really had anything to apologize for. This is all on Dean. All of it. Always. His stomach clenches and he feels the food sitting like a rock behind his belly button. The warm coffee sloshes uneasily in him and he must give something away because Steve frowns.

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“Do what?” He blinks in confusion.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve shakes his head. “But you do that sometimes. You start thinking about something and before I know it, you’re a million miles away and it’s nowhere good.”

 

“Oh,” Dean replies softly. He doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s true, but admitting it? He’d rather not.

 

Something happens then. Something strange. They finish eating and Dean helps Steve clear the plates and they stand in his tiny little kitchen, washing and drying the dishes. They’re quiet, but it isn’t uncomfortable. When they’re done and Steve’s kitchen is neat and tidy again, Dean doesn’t leave. He could, he _should_ , but he doesn’t. Steve even voices what he’s thinking when he says, “Stay. If you want.” He sounds young and uncertain, and Dean can’t deny that he does want. So he stays.

 

He feels…wanted. And he thinks maybe Steve is just as lonely as he is.

 

That shouldn’t feel like a revelation, but it does.


	6. The Heart is the Loneliest Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes promises he can’t keep and things between him and Steve are not as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard for me to write, which is a pretty bad excuse for why it took me a month to update. It's a little longer than usual in hopes that you'll forgive me for taking so long.

In the back of his mind, Dean thinks of what they have as a funny little courtship. This back and forth between them doesn’t get old, doesn’t feel tiresome. It’s possibly the most normal Dean has ever felt.

 

He gives, Steve takes. Steve gives, and Dean takes. Same old song and dance, but they’re both new at it. He doesn’t even want to call it ‘dating’ because that sounds a little too modern for some reason, but he can’t deny how much he enjoys being with Steve. There’s just one thing that prickles at him.

 

Dean has been more open, more candid with Steve than he’s even been with another person. Not even Benny knew as much about Dean as Steve does. His mind tells him that this is dangerous – no one should ever have so much information on another’s weaknesses – but his heart tells him he can trust Steve. The problem is that Steve has never been half so honest with Dean.

 

Maybe it’s his job, Dean muses on his more reasonable days. He’s a superhero, saving the world on a regular basis, and there are definitely classified details that go along with that. But there’s just something else missing. The exchange isn’t balanced in this regard, and it’s driving Dean mad.

 

“Sorry, I’m late, I know,” Steve calls as he jogs up to Dean. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants that look fairly new, too stiff to be comfortable yet. His sneakers, however, look worn through and they squeak as he approaches Dean, who’s leaning against the arch. The sun is bright, but not warm enough to justify going sans jacket.

 

“No problem,” Dean tells him agreeably. To be fair, he’d been enjoying Washington Square Park more than he thought he would, especially considering how far he had to walk to get here. But it’s lively and only a couple of kids seem to recognize Steve (Dean hates when they’re somewhere and Steve gets mobbed – especially since he patiently doles out hugs and smiles and autographs so easily) so all in all, it’s a nice day.

 

When they hug in greeting, Dean has to remind himself to let go. He still has to tamp down that initial glee he feels whenever Steve is near and he usually manages to affect a neutral façade. “You’re not cold?”

 

Steve shrugs and grins at him. “I run hot,” he laughs, and after a moment Dean joins in. He’s still wearing a couple of layers and the high 40s that his weather app promised isn’t quite enough to tempt him out of his shirtsleeves. His escapades last night provide even more incentive to cover up. Dean’s got bruises wrapping all the way around his body, sacrificing his body to protect his face. And thankfully, all he has to show for last night’s fight is a slightly puffy lip, barely even noticeable after he iced it.

 

He hasn’t seen Steve at the docks in weeks, maybe even a couple of months, and while they don’t talk about it, he also doesn’t want to invite speculation with a banged up face. He wants to ask though, ask why Steve hasn’t been around. The question stays unspoken as they walk.

 

“There’s a new exhibit,” Steve starts, interrupting whatever Dean was thinking. “At the Guggenheim. I know it’s probably not your thing, but – “

 

“Okay,” he interjects, cutting Steve off. Maybe he’s too eager, but being with Steve is addictive and Dean is hooked. He’d follow Steve anywhere he asked. Funny enough, Dean had the same thought as a child – he would follow Captain America anywhere and everywhere, just give him the chance.

 

So, he follows. But Steve never makes him feel like he’s anything less than an equal, even though Dean knows that to be laughably untrue. He’s no hero. Maybe he once was, in his own small way, but now? Hardly.

 

As predicted, the Guggenheim bores him stiff, but he hides it well. Steve seems fascinated and says things like, “the lines are bold and evocative” and it’s all Dean can do not to roll his eyes. He doesn’t even know what that means. Frankly, modern art just looks messy to him. Whatever. Steve is enjoying it and Dean enjoys Steve. Win-win.

 

They pass an exhibit of Cézanne and Dean stops in front of a still life. It’s nothing particularly special – a table, fruit, dark background – and yet, it twists something inside of him. Steve bumps into him, not paying attention and he wraps an arm around Dean to stop them both from falling and Dean’s body rocks with the impact. “It’s beautiful,” Steve says when he follows Dean’s gaze.

 

“Is it sad?” he asks, eyes unblinking.

 

Steve stands shoulder to shoulder with him and stares at the painting. They say nothing for a long, long moment. “Does it make you sad?”

 

Dean shrugs but otherwise still and unmoving. “Maybe. I don’t know why.” And he really doesn’t know. Why should a stupid painting of a stupid table make him feel like this? When he voices that opinion, Steve chuckles lightly and Dean stiffens, ready to turn a vicious glare on him.

 

“I think that’s the beauty of art,” he tells Dean and at Dean’s questioning noise, he continues. “You can talk about the colors, the history, the representation. But in the end, it’s about how it makes you feel.”

 

Steve gently maneuvers them to a bench a few steps back and Dean goes willingly. They sit and Steve says nothing, does nothing, except let Dean stare at the stupid painting. He’s patient and lets Dean have his fill. When they finally leave, Dean slips his fingers between Steve’s and squeezes lightly. A silent thank you.

 

Steve squeezes back and doesn’t force it when Dean lets go a moment later.

 

*

 

The next week is nothing but a string of bad days for Dean. Steve canceled plans on him twice at the last minute and he forgot to pay up for the motel, realizing only when he rushed back to his room that he didn’t have enough to cover it. “Damn it,” he whispers, digging frantically through his duffle. “Damn it!”

 

The thump the bag makes when it hits the wall isn’t satisfying and when the clothes spill out and flutter to the ground, he just groans and puts his head in his hands. He rubs angrily at his eyes and starts silently gathering up the mess. He’s packed and standing in the manager’s office a few minutes later, handing over the key. The manager takes it without a word and Dean just starts walking.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s made it to Brooklyn until he’s in front of Steve’s apartment building and realizing what a bad idea this was. “Fuck,” he mumbles. Maybe Steve will let him crash, just for a couple of days. Until he can hit the docks and make some money at least. He’s got his speech all prepared by the time he presses the buzzer, clears his throat and waits. And waits and waits. Dean frowns and presses it again. Still nothing. He pulls out his phone and opens his thread of text messages with Steve, trying to think of a way to ask this when he reads Steve’s last text.

 

_Sorry again about canceling. Something came up. Be back next week maybe._

 

He sent it yesterday and Dean squints at his phone. Well then. Seems there’s an empty apartment up there. A guy busy yakking into his phone comes out of the building and doesn’t notice Dean holding the door for him when it slams open. Nor does he notice Dean slipping inside behind him. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time, coming to a stop in front of Steve’s door.

 

Picking the lock is simple and Dean makes a note to warn Steve about getting better security here and then he’s inside. Still tiny, but it’s dark and warm and empty. Perfect, he thinks.

 

He putters around Steve’s apartment, feeling a little guilty and a lot strange about being in someone else’s home like this. Dean just hopes Steve won’t mind too much. He does remember after a while, after watching Steve’s TV and eating Steve’s protein bars and drinking Steve’s orange juice, that he was supposed to be out right now making money. It’s not far to the docks and within the hour, Dean is getting the shit beat out of him.

 

Getting back to Steve’s place is taking twice as long as it did to leave because he’s walking with a painful limp and trying to keep his t-shirt pressed to his cheek. He shivers under his jacket, bare-chested, and every time he pulls away the shirt to check, it makes a sickening squelching noise, coming away sticky, and he cheek burns and throbs. The bleeding is slowing a little, but he’s almost positive he’s going to need stitches. He sighs and zips his jacket up higher, resigning himself to the fact that he’s just going to be spending a few hours in the nearest ER.

 

The nearest ER, it turns out, is the same hospital that Steve brought him to the first night they met. Dean hates hospitals as much as the next person, but being here again tickles him.

 

Any amusement he felt dissipated after waiting for an hour and fifty-seven, no, fifty-eight minutes. Dean levers himself out of the hard plastic chair and makes it all the way to the automatic doors before he hears his name being called.

 

The doors _whoosh_ open and then closed again as Dean sighs heavily and turns to follow the tired-looking nurse. She sets him up on a bed in a long row of beds with curtains around them and says, “Someone will be by to see you in a few minutes.”

 

She’s gone before he can reply. He picks at his fingernails to avoid catching a glimpse of anything too gross. There’s a guy on the other side of Dean’s curtain moaning in pain and Dean has zero interest in finding out why. He’s waiting less than five minutes before someone flips back the curtain and he looks up at a familiar face.

 

“Uh,” he stammers, momentarily stunned. “Hey, Doc.”

 

Doctor Alvarez clearly takes a second to recognize him but she does and she lets out a loud guffaw. “Well, hello yourself, trouble-maker.”

 

He winces and gives her a sheepish grin. He did sort of duck out on his last visit here. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention it again and instead grasps his chin with her strong fingers and turns his face. She makes a sympathetic noise.

 

“Ouch. Someone got you good.” Doctor Alvarez flicks on an overhead lamp and angles it over Dean’s face. “Oh yeah,” she murmurs. “Too bad it’s not Halloween, because you’re about to get Frankenstein-esque.”

 

“His monster,” Dean corrects, but Alvarez rolls her eyes and just says, “Yeah, yeah. Hold still.”

 

She gives him a local and digs around on a tray for what she needs. Dean pokes his tongue against his cheek repeatedly and marvels at the fact that it feels like his face isn’t there. Alvarez catches him when she glances back at him and she breaks into a fit of giggles. “Very nice.”

 

Dean doesn’t know what she’s talking about and then blushes a fiery red when he realizes what he’s doing. “I, um. Yeah.” He thinks he’s only talking out of one side of his mouth and maybe he is. She shushes him and positions his head with gentle hands.

 

“Alright, no talking and stay still.” She gets to work and he can hear her humming something quietly. He doesn’t ask what it is but it sounds nice. Pretty. The whole affair takes longer than he thought it would but when she finishes, he thanks her as sincerely as he knows how to be. He likes her and she’s been nothing but kind to him. His opinion doesn’t change even though she stops him from getting up.

 

She levels him with a stern look and he draws his eyebrows together in a frown. “Do me a favor?” she asks. “Take care of yourself, okay? As much as I like seeing your pretty face, I’d rather it wasn’t in the ER again.”

 

His stitches pull uncomfortably when he tries to smile at her. It probably comes out more like a grimace and she gives him a look. “I’m serious, Dean.”

 

“I will,” he promises. He repeats himself twice more until she seems satisfied and she moves to pull the curtain back so he can leave. The thing is that he feels properly chastened and he has every intention of keeping his promise. But what’s that saying about good intentions? Oh yeah, road to hell and all.

He has to wait for almost half an hour before someone comes out of the apartment building to let him in and he keeps an eye out for any busybodies noticing him loitering in front of the steps. The last thing he needs tonight is catching the cops’ attention. When he finally makes it up the stairs and to Steve’s apartment, every bit of adrenaline he’s been running on is gone and all that’s left is a tired, worn out, sad-sack of Dean. He collapses on the couch and is out before his head hits the cushion.

 

Someone’s touching his hair and he grabs the hand, panicked and ready to fight. Steve’s concerned face stares back at him. “Dean?” he asks, soft. “What are you doing here?”

 

Dean sits up and Steve rises from his crouch, sitting back on the coffee table in front of Dean. It takes Dean a minute to respond, his brain still trying to catch up. “I, uh, I’m sorry,” he starts. He sees his phone and grabs it, looks at the time. “It’s 5:00,” he states dully. It’s 5:00. The next day. He just slept almost eighteen hours. “Shit.”

 

When he looks at Steve again, Steve appears a little tired but clean and alert. “I thought you were going to be gone.” Dean grimaces. Not how he meant for this to go. “I mean,” he tries again. “I just needed a place to crash and I’m sorry about this. I got all the way over here and remembered you were gone.” He shrugs apologetically. “I broke in.”

 

“I see that.” Steve’s voice is neutral, but he doesn’t seem angry. He’s not tossing Dean out on his ass yet. “We got back late last night or early this morning, I guess," he says. As if he’s explaining to Dean why he’s back early. As if he’s the one with something to apologize for. “I stayed at the Tower so we could debrief this morning. Or well, by the time everyone actually got out of bed, it was afternoon.” He motions to the kitchen. “Hungry?”

 

Dean is, actually but he protests that Steve doesn’t have to cook anything for him. Steve smiles a small little quirk of his lips. “I have leftovers. Bruce got up before any of us and made more food than even we could pack away.”

 

He busies himself in the kitchen and Dean has never felt more awkward. This was such a bad idea. It doesn’t matter that Steve got back early. He should have never been here in the first place. He says as much to Steve and Steve ignores him in favor of putting a microwaved plate of something in front of him. It smells delicious and Dean’s mouth starts to water. Steve sits next to him on the couch and lets his head fall back. The curve of his neck is equally mouth-watering, but Dean scolds himself and picks up the fork instead.

 

When he opens his mouth, his cheek twinges painfully and he lets out a short groan. Steve lays a light hand on Dean’s jaw, fingers curling over the curve of it. “Can I see?” he asks. Dean puts his fork down and turns his head obligingly.

 

Steve is quiet for a long time. His thumb barely brushes the surface of the stitches and Dean can feel the prickle of the thread being disturbed. “Were you fighting last night?”

 

Dean thinks it’s stupid to answer since it’s obvious so he stays quiet. He isn’t expecting Steve to move his hand until it’s cupping the back of his head and the gentle tug that puts Dean face-to-face with him. Steve’s forehead is warm and solid when he lays it against Dean’s and his nose just brushes Dean’s.

 

Dean can barely breathe, not wanting it to end. He hears Steve inhale and feels him exhale over his lips. “I know I have no right to say this, to ask this of you, but please don’t go back there. Please.”

 

When he whispers, “Okay,” against Steve’s lips, he can feel the tension seep out of his broad shoulders and it catches him by surprise when Steve sags slightly against him.

 

“Thank you.” Steve’s hand drifts down past the collar of Dean’s jacket that he apparently forgot to take off last night. It’s not until he realizes that he can feel Steve on his skin that he remembers about his shirt. It was still bloodstained and he had never put it back on and Steve’s big warm, calloused hand is dangerously close to Dean’s bare chest. The little hitched breath he makes was entirely involuntary and Steve’s lips are on his.

 

His lips are cracked but Dean kisses back anyway. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t showered in a couple of days now and he wants to curl up in shame when he hears the slow rasp of his zipper being undone. The jacket falls aside and when Steve eases him down on the couch, Dean flings his arm across his face to hide. He can’t bear how gentle Steve is being. It hurts and aches and he can’t take it.

 

This isn’t what he wants, not what he needs. He doesn’t deserve goodness and kindness. He doesn’t deserve Steve. His arm is being lifted and he can’t help the small sob that escapes. The dry, soft kisses that pepper his face are too sweet, too much for him. It’s been too long for him and he’s clumsy, aggressive when he takes Steve’s face between his hands and kisses him. The quiet pleas that tumble from his mouth are answered with every touch, every kiss that Steve gives so generously.

 

When Steve eases himself back on to Dean and wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, they’re so close it’s decadent and dangerous. He forgot what goodness felt like and as Steve rocks his hips against Dean and breathes open-mouthed kisses on his skin, he never wants to leave this. Steve comes before Dean and he spills over Dean’s stomach with a quiet groan and flushed cheeks. His muscles contract almost painfully and Dean is much louder when comes, wishing for the briefest moment that there wasn’t that barrier of latex between them, that he could feel the warmth of Steve wrapped around him.

 

Steve rests, curled on Dean’s chest as they both pant softly and the sweat on their skin cools. He holds Steve and lets his hand stroke his back in a long, sweeping motion. Neither says anything, and in the quiet, Dean thinks of Steve’s face, which is now pressed to him, laying right over his tattoo. Dean knows that his face had been wondrous, worshipful even, though he tried to contain it. Steve, on the other hand, looked troubled. Far away and lost.

 

Dean rests a hand on Steve’s head, feeling the eggshell curve of his skull. “Regret it?” he murmurs, needing to know. Needing to make sure. Steve’s fingers dig painfully into his ribs and he says without looking up, “Never.”

 

He nods and feels Steve’s breath deepen after a few minutes, still wrapped around Dean. His plate of food is still on the coffee table and he knows it’s gone cold. He stares at it anyway and muses. He recognizes the face now. The face of someone fucking one person and thinking of another. Dean thinks he should be angry, but instead he’s unsettled.

 

Maybe Steve hides more than Dean thinks he does and Dean thinks Steve hides a lot. It’s always uneven between them, isn’t it? He eases himself off the couch and silently lays a blanket over Steve’s naked body, still sleeping.

 

“You’re right,” he says softly. “You didn’t have the right to ask me that.” He’s made too many promises today, none of which he’s going to keep. He dresses quietly and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

 

Unthinking, he pulls his cell phone out and dials a number by heart. He doesn’t expect an answer.

 

_Hey, this is Sam. Leave a message._

 

He hangs up before it beeps and tosses it in his bag. When he steps outside, he’s never felt more alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still whine about writing on [my blog](http://thosehawkeyes.tumblr.com) so feel free to come chat with me about this fic or anything else there!


	7. End of All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're more alike than Dean knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue to go!

Despite still being irritated with Steve, Dean still answers every call, every text. He can’t help it. He keeps everything short though, brief and terse, the way he used to before. Before everything. He knows Steve hears it in his voice, hears it in every bitten off word, but Dean never claimed to be good.

 

And maybe he’s starting to realize that _Steve_ is not as good as he thought either.

 

*

 

“Steve.” Sam, as always, looks happy to see him. But that’s also because Sam, unlike Steve, is a genuinely nice person and he has no trouble admitting it. “Good to see you, man.”

 

They thump each other’s backs in a hug and Steve tries to smile. It doesn’t quite work though and Sam frowns in concern.

 

“No, it’s nothing,” Steve rushes to assure him, maybe a little too quickly. When Sam just raises his eyebrows, Steve sighs. “Okay, it’s kind of something.” Sam doesn’t press and just welcomes him inside.

 

He likes Sam’s apartment in D.C., brighter and cleaner than his own back in Brooklyn. His apartment had been feeling incredibly empty and lonely until… Until Dean. Steve was pleasantly surprised to find Dean sleeping on his couch that afternoon so many days ago, but everything that happened afterward hurts a little to remember.

 

The sex had been good, great even. Dean had been sweet and willing and hot, and what else could Steve ask for? Waking up alone, however, was disorienting and it took Steve a long, long time to remember where he was. _When_ he was. He sat curled on his couch for hours after, wrapped in a blanket that Dean must have laid over him, and tried to remember every detail of what had just happened. He stayed like that until he got stiff and when he shifted, he felt sore when he and Dean had been connected so intimately just hours before. The lube dried tacky and sticky on his skin though and eventually, that’s what prompted him to get up and take a shower.

 

The shower didn’t help clear his mind. In fact, he felt more muddled and uneasy than before, something there that he couldn’t put his finger on. When it finally hit him, he felt stupid and slow for not realizing it earlier.

 

It always comes back to Bucky, in the end.

 

Sam is busy digging through his cupboards and Steve sits heavily on the kitchen chair. He comes back with a handful of packets and dumps them all in front of Steve. “Unfortunately, my sister and her husband were here visiting for a few days and I’ve never seen two human beings drink that much coffee.” Sam chuckles when Steve raises his eyebrows with a grin. “Yeah, yeah, Hawkeyes excluded. So anyway, I’ve got like ten different types of tea. Anything look good? I haven’t actually tried any of them except…” he pauses as he sorts through the packets on the table and picks up a reddish orange one. “Uh, I think it was this one?”

 

“Why do you buy so much tea then?” Steve asks, picking each one up and reading it carefully. He looks up when Sam laughs loudly.

 

“Man, I have no idea. Have you seen the tea aisle in the grocery store?” He gestures broadly. “It just makes you want to buy everything there.”

 

Steve shrugs. “Fair enough.” He hasn’t actually seen the tea aisle, but it sounds like something Bruce would appreciate so he makes a mental note to remember to tell him about it. “I think I’ll go with this one.”

 

“A very good choice!” Sam booms, doing his best impersonation of Thor. It works and Steve lets out a huffing laugh.

 

“Is it?”

 

Sam talks over the running water as he fills the kettle. “Don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”

 

They’re both quiet until Sam brings back a mug for Steve and a tall glass of juice for himself. Steve asks, “No tea?”

 

Sam shakes his head and points to his refrigerator. “My sister came here and bought so much juice and then left it all. And it seems kinda wasteful to throw it all out. So I’ve been drinking juice for days.” Steve nods at that and pokes at the floating tea bag in his mug.

 

“Do you think I should tell Dean about Buck?” Steve figures he might as well spit it out since he did just show up at Sam’s house unannounced and at six-thirty in the goddamn morning. At least Sam’s an early riser and was already up.

 

Sam, clearly not expecting that, chokes a little on the gulp of juice he just took and Steve silently hands him a napkin from the holder in the center of the table. “Um,” he coughs and wipes at the juice dripping down his chin. “Tell Dean about Buck or _tell_ Dean about Buck?”

 

Before Steve can respond, Sam holds up a hand. “You haven’t told him about Bucky yet? Like nothing? Not even from before?”

 

There’s nothing in Sam’s voice but incredulity, but Steve hears the unspoken censure that has been circling his mind ever since he met Dean. _How can you not tell him about the most important person in your life?_

 

Steve takes a sip of tea to wet his suddenly dry mouth and regrets it a little when it burns his tongue. “I didn’t know how,” he starts and peeks at Sam, who just looks back at him completely neutral, nothing for Steve to go on. “Dean told me a lot of stuff about himself, his life.” Steve pauses. “The man he loved.”

 

“But you never told him about Bucky,” Same finishes for him, and even though it’s gentle, Steve flinches a little anyway.

 

“It’s complicated,” he says finally. It sounds dumb even to him.

 

Sam drags his finger along the condensation on his glass in nonsense designs. “Look, I’m not going to tell you that you should tell him everything. You can’t. All that shit that went down last spring? That’s like, a global security concern. And I’m not saying that he’s not trustworthy. Maybe he is. But no one knows, right? Except Fury and Natasha.”

 

“And you,” Steve mumbles.

 

Sam waves a hand impatiently. “Obviously. But Steve, man,” and his voice gentles again, softer and sympathetic. “You can tell him about _Bucky_. I think you should.”

 

When Steve leaves, he feels a little lighter for talking it out. And also a little heavier because Sam sent two bottles of juice and a box of oolong tea for Bruce with him.

 

*

 

Steve pulls over somewhere in New Jersey to dig his phone out of his back pocket. He thumbs through the screens looking for Dean’s number and hovers over the _call_ button. A semi whizzes by him and rocks the car with the force, startling him out of indecision. He opens a new text instead and types something out.

 

He’s pocketed the phone and pulled out onto the road again when he feels his phone vibrate with a reply. It didn’t take Dean long and Steve resolves not to look at it until he’s back in New York.

 

The Tower always buzzes with activity on the lower floors but the residence floors are quieter. He assumes Tony and Bruce are in their respective labs, so he takes the elevator to the common floor first where he leaves all of the juice in the fridge (having no doubt that it will be consumed quickly) and runs into Pepper.

 

“Steve, hi,” she whispers, covering her phone with her hand. “Everything okay? No, no, I’m still here,” she sighs, exasperated. “We covered all of this in the meeting last week. I remember you being there but apparently you don’t remember being there, hmm?” Steve can hear someone talking rapidly on the other end and the furrow between Pepper’s eyebrows gets deeper.

 

Steve walks past her with a friendly pat on the shoulder and waves. Pepper mouths a _bye_ at him and he smiles as he heads for the elevator again. “Jarvis?”

 

“Good morning, Captain,” Stark’s AI greets him quietly. “A pleasure to have you back.”

 

He returns the sentiment but stays silent after that until he reaches Bruce’s lab. “Hold the elevator, Jarvis. I’ll be just a minute.”

 

It turns out to be less than a minute because Bruce is fast asleep on a couch tucked away in the back of the lab. His curly brown hair is all Steve can see from this angle and one of Stark’s bots comes whirring up to him. He can’t tell them apart, even though he knows Tony named them all. It purrs happily when Steve pats its robotic arm.

 

He finds a sticky note and writes _From Sam_ on it and presses it to the box. “Give this to him when he wakes up,” Steve whispers to the bot and it rolls back and forth excitedly, whirring louder. “Shh,” he hushes it and leaves before he excites it so much it disturbs Bruce.

 

Apparently Jarvis didn’t hold the elevator because it takes a few minutes for the doors to open. When they do, a surprised Colonel Rhodes greets him inside with a hearty handshake. “Captain! Good to see you.”

 

“You, too,” he smiles. He’s always liked the Colonel. Besides, anyone that can put Tony in his place is all right by him. Which is probably why he also likes Pepper so much. They chat amiably until the reach the lobby and when they reach the front doors that slide open silently, Rhodes points to the left. “I’m headed back, but we’ll have to catch up sometime, Cap.”

 

“Absolutely,” he says, shaking Rhodes’ hand again. “See you soon, Colonel.” He’s gone a few steps down the street when he remembers that his bike is in Tony’s underground garage and he turns on his heel to head back inside. Jarvis’ smooth British accent comes over the elevator.

 

“Forget something, Captain?”

 

Steve nods and watches the floor numbers go down. “Tony fixed up my bike. Or I think he did.”

 

“Sir finished your bike on Wednesday and has made some modifications to it that you may or may not appreciate.”

 

Steve doesn’t even ask, rolling his eyes. While the elevator descends, he remembers his phone. He swipes through to the new text and reads it under it his breath, lips moving quietly.

 

_I’ll be at the docks._

 

It hits him like a sharp pain. Even after he asked Dean not to go? After everything? He almost replies _no_ but he’s afraid. Afraid of saying no. Afraid of Dean disappearing like a wisp of smoke in the air. So, he says yes.

 

*

 

He fusses around his apartment until dark. Natasha calls him and he almost lets it go to voicemail but in the end, he answers it, keeping the conversation light and easy. He knows she sees right through it, she always does, but she doesn’t call him on it. “Come if you can,” she tells him. “I’m surprised Pepper didn’t tell you about it sooner.”

 

“She was busy this morning when I saw her,” Steve explains. “It sounds nice though. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

 

“Hmm.” Natasha sounds unconvinced, but then again, she always sounds unconvinced so Steve ignores it. “She’s been trying to set me up with this lawyer she knows for weeks now and of course, she invited him to the benefit tonight. I just thought I’d see if you were free to be my date instead.”

 

Steve laughs at that. “I can’t imagine you have that much trouble getting your own dates. Who knows, maybe he’ll be interesting enough for you.”

 

She scoffs loudly. “He’s just a lawyer. I think you’d be more fun but fine.” She hangs up, but he doesn’t think she’s really mad at him. He does feel a little flattered though, especially since he always assumed she and Clint were together. Actually, he never has any idea who Clint is really with. The last time he saw Kate, she informed him that Clint’s divorce to Bobbi was finalized and he stuttered out some sympathetic noise, all while feeling baffled that he never knew they were married.

 

He forgets the phone call immediately when he sees the time, stuffing his jacket pocket with his keys and phone, ready to leave. The docks are so familiar now that he makes it there on autopilot, even though it really has been weeks, maybe even a couple of months, since he’s been there. The crowd, a little thinner than usual, parts easily for him when he walks through and he ignores them all, searching for Dean.

 

He doesn’t search for long. Dean is in the ring, seemingly evenly matched with the guy opposite of him. It’s been nearly a week since Steve has seen him. Their texts and calls have been stilted, awkward. Almost as cold as their first few weeks after meeting each other. He’s desperate to fix it, to go back to the easy companionship they were working their way towards, but he has a feeling it’s going to be difficult.

 

Dean gets in two quick jabs to the guy’s ribs and manages to block a hit. The crowd jeers and yells around Steve, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear any of it. He looks tired. He looks angry.

 

He also looks very, very alone. Lost, even.

 

The rest of the fight goes on and Dean wins, but Steve doesn’t cheer along with everyone around him. He edges away from the ring, away from the crowd, until he’s standing alone. Visible enough for Dean to find him. Which he does, quickly, as he hops down and smirks his way through the buzzing press of people, congratulating him. When he spots Steve, he saunters over, slowly, like a man without a care in the world. It reeks of falseness and Steve grits his teeth together so he doesn’t say anything too hastily.

 

“So.” Dean unwraps the white tape around his knuckles, stained red with flecks of drying blood. “You came.”

 

*

 

He saw Steve the moment he entered the warehouse, but he didn’t let it affect his concentration. The guy in front of him right now in the ring was his only concern. It was all over faster than he liked and he may have actually sneered in disgust when the other man tapped out. He wanted it to go on forever. He wanted blood and pain. He wanted to punish Steve, but this substitute in front of him was found to be lacking.

 

After it was over, several men patted him on the shoulder, called things out to him that he didn’t bother listening to, all while he smiled and nodded to them. A conqueror graciously accepting his victory.

 

When he finally faces Steve, the crowd had turned away from them, giving an illusion of privacy. They are far enough from the center of action to not be heard and the shadows creep across the floors here, no lights hanging overhead.

 

“So. You came.” The blood on his hands is satisfying, even more so when he sees Steve notice it.

 

“I did.” So grave, so serious. Dean wants to laugh, so he does, and Steve frowns deeply. Disapproving. “Can we talk?”

 

It’s not exactly what he hoped to hear. He’s standing here in open disregard of the promise he made to Steve and it makes him feel a bit like a naughty, unrepentant child, waiting to face discipline. He tilts his chin forward, defiant.

 

“We can talk here.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “Too loud in here.” It’s not, not really. They can hear each other fine this far from the crowd and Dean scoffs but follows Steve outside. The rust-covered door swings shut behind them with a solid clang and the night is dark, cold. A single light attached to the warehouse wall flickers uncertainly, like it’s waiting to give up.

 

“Well?” Dean asks, and his voice seems too loud out here.

 

Steve keeps walking and Dean follows, hesitant now that he’s alone with Steve like this. At least inside, he felt a little safer. “I wanted to tell you something,” Steve says and he slides against the wall of the warehouse until he’s sitting down. Dean stares blankly until Steve pats the ground beside him.

 

It’s a bit more difficult than he’d like, already feeling sore and achy from the fight. And from last night. And the night before that. But he hides it well and Steve doesn’t seem to notice. His hands hang between his knees and Dean mirrors the position.

 

“I haven’t been honest with you, Dean.” Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise, head whipping around to glance at Steve, but Steve doesn’t look at him. “I mean, you may know already, but there was someone in my past. Someone I was close to.”

 

 _Bucky_ , Dean’s brain supplies helpfully. Of course he’d read the comics and seen Bucky Barnes helping Captain America save the day. He even knew, somehow, that Bucky wasn’t just a character, but he was real. Someone Steve knew and loved.

 

Loved. Oh.

 

He suddenly feels enormously uncomfortable and shifts his body slightly to edge away from Steve.

 

“Things were different back then,” Steve continues on, oblivious to Dean’s discomfort. “Buck was everything to me. I didn’t have any family and the Barnes’ took me in, loved me. When we got older, Bucky and I had an apartment together in Brooklyn.” He smiles self-deprecatingly at Dean and it’s sadder than Dean’s ever seen. “I – I loved him. Still do, maybe.”

 

“Oh.” Dean can’t say anything more than that. Doesn’t know what else he could say.

 

Something small scurries by in the shadows and Dean grimaces, momentarily distracted. He isn’t expecting Steve’s big, warm hand on his arm.

 

“We’re more alike than you think, Dean.” He’s so earnest and it breaks Dean’s already broken heart. “For everyone else, it’s been a lifetime since he’s been gone, but for me it feels like yesterday. And I still feel guilty. A,” he clears his throat. “A very dear friend told me to respect his choice and I did. I _do_. But that doesn’t stop the guilt. Or the grief.”  

 

And that Dean does understand. Intimately. “The grief doesn’t ever go away, does it?” he asks, voice rough and hoarse. He already knows the guilt doesn’t fade. He feels tears gathering in the corner of his eyes but makes no move to stop their fall.

 

Steve rolls his head against the wall. “I’ll let you know.”

 

They’re quiet, sitting together, watching the slow-moving harbor. It smells out here, dank with the cloying scent of decay and putrid water. Dean shifts, ready to leave. Ready to leave this entire thing behind him. But Steve surprises him again by pulling him close by the sleeve and Dean turns to look at him, settling back down.

 

Their foreheads brush and noses bump, and Steve’s hands come up to frame Dean’s face, gently, mindful of his bruises. His thumbs sweep Dean’s cheeks, which burn with shame when he realizes that they’re wet. Between one breath and the next, they’re kissing, deep and sweet and Dean’s entire body aches with it. It feels like a goodbye.

 

Steve breaks it first and he says between panting breaths, “I know you’re punishing yourself still.” Dean stiffens but Steve won’t let him pull away yet, hands tightening on his face. “I know you wanted me to punish you, too. But you’re hurting enough, Dean. You’ve been hurt enough.”

 

Instead of feeling anger and indignation, Dean sags like his strings have been cut. He reaches up to hold Steve, anchoring himself. The fine hairs at the back of his head are soft and Dean cards his fingers through them. When he kisses Steve again, it’s a pardon, a blessing. For him. For Steve. For both.

 

Permission to put it all to rest and to start over.

 

*

 

Walking away is hard. Dean’s unsteady, wobbling like a newborn colt, but he feels freer. Washed clean, bloodless and new.

 

*

 

Steve finds himself an hour later in a tux, feeling unbearably light, despite the restricting suit. Natasha’s eye goes wide with uncharacteristic surprise when she sees him and he gives her a discreet thumbs-up when she tilts her head to the man in front of her. He’s handsome and has a kind face. Steve has no doubt Natasha will eat him alive.

 

“Steve!” Pepper is delighted to see him. “I hoped you would come, but I’m sorry it was so last minute. I told Tony to invite you ages ago,” she gestures towards the bar and they both assume that’s where Stark would be found. “But he always forgets.”

 

He smiles at her and thanks her genuinely. Someone’s at his elbow and he looks down to see Natasha, delicately beautiful and soft. Pepper kisses the air beside her cheek and says, “How’s the lawyer?”

 

Natasha smiles sharply. “Not as interesting as Steve.” She raises a brow when Steve offers his hand.

 

“How about a dance?”

 

He’s clumsy and eventually just lets her take the lead, graceful as ever. It’s not perfect. It’s not even the dance partner he wanted once. But it’s okay. 

 

When he bends low to rest his cheek against Natasha’s, he pretends it’s someone else. Dean, Bucky, Peggy. People he’s loved, lost, and in some small way, he feels he can finally let them go.

 

*

 

He’s astonished, holding the keys, mouth open. Steve had pressed the keys into his hand when he left. “Something I want you to have.”

 

The bike is beautiful, chrome and shiny. And he’s not sure how Steve knew, but he always wanted a motorcycle. It’s a perfect fit beneath him when he sits on it, and he distantly realizes that there’s nothing else left for him in New York. He starts the engine and feels it purr beneath him, the vibrations rattling up his legs.

 

It doesn’t take long to leave the city behind him, opening up the throttle and letting the asphalt blur. He laughs, a long, happy noise. It feels like freedom. Like absolution. It feels good.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is at peace.

_3 months later_

 

Dean takes his time, driving aimlessly for days on end. The motorcycle is incredible. Sleek and fast and Dean hadn’t even figured out what all of the little buttons everywhere did, but he loves it. He loves it even though he’s getting sunburned and his freckles seem to be multiplying exponentially.

 

He loves it because it’s from Steve. He loves it because it finally provided him with the means and the excuse to get out of New York. It wasn’t healthy, he knows. All the time he spent there. Everything he did.

 

Somewhere around Missouri he pulls over and sits long enough for the engine to cool. It clicks and hisses and he’s careful not to burn his leg on the exhaust pipe again. That first burn still smarts under his jeans.

 

It took him a while to get everything together. It took even longer to find the perfect place but he likes it here. He’s been on back roads for a day or two and it’s beautiful, shady and cool. He takes it out of the saddlebag and leaves the motorcycle parked. There’s no one around anyway. Dean is pretty sure this is probably someone’s private property but it’s too perfect to pass up. When he’s done, about fifty yards from the road in the middle of a field where the land slopes gently upward toward a towering oak tree, he steps back and sighs.

 

The wooden cross is crude and crooked. He took his time with it though, carving a letter a day, and it reads _Benny Lafitte – 2013_.

 

Dean, of course, had no idea how old Benny actually was. Never asked him what year he was born. But he remembers what year he died vividly. It does get easier though, he thinks. He asked Steve that the night they parted ways. The guilt, the grief, it’s getting easier.

 

He hopes it’s getting easier for Steve, too.

 

In the end, the only thing really stopping him from moving on was forgiving himself. And with Steve’s help, he could. He did. It hurts still. He wakes up some nights sweating and gasping for breath, so sure he heard those jeering calls in the dark. The sound of Benny’s last breaths. But those nights and nightmares grow farther apart and it’s…not okay, but better at least.

 

It’s entirely an accident and Dean can’t help but laugh when he runs into Sam days later. Sam is so surprised, he can’t speak for nearly a minute and Dean laughs harder. It’s been years and Sam’s hair is longer, his face a little more weathered. He has wrinkles deeply etched across his forehead. Time has changed them both.

 

Dean sobers eventually and gestures to the seat across from Sam. “Can I?”

 

The diner isn’t busy, but there are a few patrons still this late at night and Dean could sit somewhere else. Or leave. He hopes Sam doesn’t make him do either. Relief must be evident on his face when Sam says, “Of course” because Sam’s face twists guiltily.

 

A waitress brings around a cup of coffee and Dean thanks her quietly. It almost feels like normal except they’re both far too solemn right now for this to ever seem like it was before.

 

“I was in New York,” Dean says, unsure if Sam even wants to hear this. When he tilts his head up, Sam is studying him carefully. “I met someone.”

 

“I’ve been here in Texas,” Sam responds. “I’m taking classes at the university.”

 

Dean nods and sips his coffee. He notices the stack of books sitting next to Sam now. He assumed they were books of lore, assumed Sam was hunting all this time, but they have titles on them like _Introduction to Applied Calculus_ and _Constitutional Law_. “Law school?” he guesses, uncertain now given the math book.

 

Sam shakes his head. “I never finished undergrad. I’m just…” he trails off for a moment. “I’m just taking classes.” He runs his hands through his hair and Dean huffs a laugh when Sam manages to get all of it into a ponytail. He actually does chuckle when a black elastic band appears from Sam’s pocket and wraps around his hair in a neat bun.

 

“You met someone?” Sam prompts, ignoring Dean’s amusement.

 

Dean’s smile is melancholy, soft. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” At Sam’s curious frown he continues, “Doesn’t matter, not really. But things are better now.”

 

He understands Sam’s questioning look. Are things better or are things better between them? “I missed you, Sammy.” He can’t help it. He has to say it.

 

Sam chews his bottom lip and Dean fears for a moment that he’s spoiled it already. Before he can panic, however, Sam lays an enormous hand over Dean’s leather-clad arm and squeezes it tightly. “I missed you, too.”

 

They spend the next few weeks together, and between Sam’s classes and study groups, they rebuild their relationship. There’s a lot still unspoken between them, so many misunderstandings, but Dean has hope, for once, that they can work it all out.

 

Sam has been taking care of the Impala and Dean sits inside her sometimes and just breathes. Listens to the silence. Runs his fingers over the leather wheel. He thinks he might leave her here with Sam again. He’s not quite finished with the motorcycle yet.

 

Their goodbye isn’t sad. Dean makes it abundantly clear that he’ll be back and Sam reminds him each time that he’s not going anywhere. He likes it in Texas and he likes the university. He’s made friends and has a girlfriend that even Dean kind of likes. Her name is Beth and she’s an art major. She perpetually smells of paint and charcoal, and she’s also funny and whip-smart and Sam adores her.

 

He rides for days on end, enjoying the solitude for once. It reminds him a little of traversing the country on his own, back when Dad left him, but this time, it’s fun. Back then, at twenty-six, he felt so scared and alone. Nervous about being on his own but so reluctant to show it. He overcompensated a lot in those days, all swagger and brawn. Now though, it’s exciting. Everything looks different to him and he acknowledges the fog of depression finally lifting.

 

Losing count of the days and the miles is easy. He’s not even sure where he is when he hears the echo of a monstrous roar that shakes the earth beneath him. The bike comes to a screeching halt and he looks wildly around for the source of the sound. Somewhere, a little behind him and far off the main road, he sees the bright flashes of explosions and another roar. Curious, he inches the motorcycle off the road and through the grassy field. There’s a dirt road that he notices now connects back to the main one and he eases the motorcycle onto it.

 

It’s a terrifying, thrilling sight. He’s far enough from the action that he feels safe but he’s giddy with adrenaline and excitement all the same. The Avengers, in the flesh. Whatever battle they were fighting seems to be drawing to a close and they crush and corral what Dean swears are reptiles the size of the Impala.

 

None of them notice him, standing so far off, but he hears the sound of a muted but powerful engine approaching. The jet lands with ease in the grass and Dean can’t help but gape in wonder. He spots Steve easily, the red, white, and blue glaringly obvious. He’s busy shouting commands and even the Hulk, gargantuan and frightening, listens to him.

 

Dean recognizes Clint jogging up the ramp of the jet and he smiles, wondering how Kate and the dog are doing. A petite redhead follows and the Hulk disappears before Dean’s eyes, shrinking down into the body of a man, who wobbles before collapsing to his knees. The most beautiful man Dean has ever seen wraps the former-Hulk’s naked body in the red cape that was draped across his impossibly broad shoulders and carries him aboard. Iron Man takes off into the sky heading east. Steve is last to go and he pauses, one foot on the ramp.

 

His heart pounds as he realizes Steve is looking right at him now and he lifts a hand in greeting. Dean thinks he can see Steve’s brilliant smile from here and laughs breathlessly when Steve’s fingers touch his lips before he raises the hand in return.

 

The jet engines whir and someone seems to call Steve from inside because he startles and jogs up the ramp.

 

Dean watches as the jet takes off, kicking up dust everywhere, and doesn’t take his eyes off of it until he can’t see it anymore. When it’s gone from sight, he presses his fingertips against his lips and waves to the empty sky.

 

He revs the motorcycle up and for once in his life feels at peace. The main highway stretches out in front of him until the horizon eats it up and many hours later, he comes to a stop in front of a sign. He idles the engine, the only soul on the highway for miles. _Welcome to Arizona!_ the sign declares and Dean smiles.

 

He’s always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, you guys! I've seriously enjoyed writing this story and I hope you enjoyed reading it. I did my best to give Dean an ending I thought he deserved after I put him through so much. Comments and feedback are always appreciated and loved. 
> 
> My next project is Nanowrimo so stop by [my blog](http://thosehawkeyes.tumblr.com) to keep up with my progress if you want!


	9. Ninety-Eight Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Steve!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place somewhere in the middle of Impulse Control. I actually can't even remember if Dean was in New York during July but let's pretend he is for the sake of Steve's birthday.

Steve’s tired. For just a quick moment, he feels every bit of his ninety-eight years and it’s exhausting.

 

Tony wanted to throw some birthday extravaganza as only Tony knew how and Steve gamely went along with it, assuming that it would be just the Avengers. Pepper, too. Maybe Colonel Rhodes if he could make it. And obviously, he’d want Sam there as well.

 

In reality, it was more like a thousand of Tony’s closest friends and Steve only knew a handful by name. But of course, everyone knew him. The birthday boy. He only allowed Pepper to kiss him on the cheek. Everyone else got an arms length away handshake. Tony got a hug, but only because by the time Steve found him, he was so drunk that he tried to kiss Steve full on the mouth and Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and turned it into an awkward pat-pat-thump hug for the benefit of the photographers.

 

Ugh, the photographers.

 

His (very nice) suit that Natasha picked out (and had tailored for him – he doesn’t want to know how or why she knows his measurements) started to itch around the collar by ten-thirty and when the fireworks started going off outside, Steve had the urge to rip off all his clothes and go streaking through the crowd. He really only refrained because he had a feeling he’d get more pinches and slaps than shocked faces.

 

Natasha had given him a knowing glance however when he started twitching and Steve stifled his sigh. He just wanted to go to bed.

 

He even had a table of presents, even though he told Tony that under no circumstances should anyone bring gifts. He suggested everyone make donations to three charities he supported regularly, and he was happy that some people actually did as he asked. The shiny gifts on the table irritated him and he wasn’t taking any of them, no matter how rude it made him look. He’d leave them with Tony. Frankly, Tony probably wouldn’t even notice the extra stuff unless some of it happened to be monogrammed.

 

At eleven-thirty, he extricated himself and when he told Sam he was leaving, Sam giggled tipsily and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Is it bec-“ Hiccup. “Because you’re… _old_?”

 

“Yes, that’s exactly why,” Steve replied and carefully sat Sam down on a stool at the bar. “Please tell me you didn’t drive here.”

 

Sam didn’t answer him, too busy tapping the bar to get the bartender’s attention. Steve discreetly felt Sam’s pockets for his keys anyway and when he didn’t find any, he squeezed Sam’s shoulder and told him to take care.

 

He made it out of the party with only a couple of people noticing, but he pulled out the _aw, shucks_ expression that Bucky once declared should be categorized as a lethal weapon and he told them all the same thing. “It’s past this old-timer’s bedtime.”

 

They all laughed as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.

 

He supposes it is funny. In a dark, morbid way. Well, anyway, it’s his birthday and he’s not going to think about dark, morbid things right now. At least for another six minutes.

 

Eleven fifty-nine and someone knocks on his door. His suit’s halfway off and he knows his hair is sticking up like a field of wheat ever since he ran his fingers through it to try and loosen up all the gel that Natasha insisted made him look like a young blonde Cary Grant.

 

He didn’t have the heart to remind her that Cary Grant was after his time, technically, but he appreciated the sentiment.

 

Another knock, more hesitant this time, and Steve only groans a little as he goes to open it.

 

It’s Dean. Looking soft and happy in the light of a single candle sticking out of a cupcake in his hand.

 

“Happy birthday, man,” Dean says and gives Steve one of those rare, genuine smiles that he only sees when Dean is truly happy about something. Steve grins back, tugging him inside, mindful of the still burning candle, and shuts the door behind them. He hasn’t moved so Dean’s pressed right up against him, still balancing the cupcake in his hand.

 

Steve blows it out, a quick burst of air, and Dean frowns. “No, I was gonna sing…”

 

“Oh,” Steve says, sheepish. “You could do it now?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “Too late,” he huffs, but his eyes are still crinkled around the corners as he tries to hold back a smile. “I didn’t know what flavor you’d like so I just picked something.”

 

Steve swipes his pinky finger through the icing and licks it off, pleased with the way Dean tracks his movements. “I like chocolate,” he replies simply. “Thanks.” He almost reminds Dean again that he wanted him at his party tonight, but decides against it. Dean had looked so torn at first and finally just flatly refused Steve’s offer. He’s still not comfortable with the idea of the Avengers, not really.

 

Sometimes Steve thinks Dean is barely comfortable with _him_ , but right now, they’re good. Steve belatedly realizes he’s been smiling the entire time and Dean looks equally pleased.

 

“Come on in,” Steve urges. He takes the cupcake from Dean’s hand and moves to the couch. Dean follows but surprises Steve by sitting on the coffee table across from him, so close their knees touch. Steve bumps Dean’s leg. “You’re not just gonna sit there and watch me eat it, are you?”

 

Dean smirks and shrugs. “Maybe I am. I…wanted to get you a cake, but I figured you’d probably have a cool, fancy one at your party already.”

 

He doesn’t seem put off by the fact that he wasn’t at Steve’s party, so maybe Steve could have said it…

 

“I wish you would have been there.”

 

Well, he’s going for broke. Sometimes he treads more carefully with Dean, but it’s his birthday and he’ll do what he wants. Sort of, since his birthday ended three minutes ago. But why quibble?

 

He bites into the cupcake and immediately gets crumbs all over his suit pants. Dean’s amused when Steve just brushes them off to the floor. “I’ll sweep it up later,” he tells Dean.

 

“Whatever, man.” Dean taps Steve’s knee with his own. “How is it?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer immediately since he’s got the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. “Really good,” he says when he swallows. “You really didn’t have to.”

 

Dean shrugs and lifts the paper wrapper from Steve’s fingers. “Had to see you on your birthday, dude.”

 

He abruptly stands, towering over Steve on the couch. He bends almost to his waist and cups his hand around Steve’s neck. “Happy birthday, Steve,” he says just before tilting his head slightly and kissing Steve softly. Steve closes his eyes and kisses back.

 

“Oh!” he yelps, pulling back, and grabs Dean’s wandering fingers near his ass.

 

“And a pinch to grow on,” Dean laughs and cards his fingers through Steve’s still-sticky hair before stepping back. “I’ll see you, okay?”

 

He’s gone between one blink and the next and Steve lets his head fall to the back of the couch. Smiles at the ceiling.

 

It was a good birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was totally picturing the end of Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald is sitting on the table with her birthday cake and Jake Ryan. I'm a sucker for birthdays ok?
> 
> Drop me a line, if you feel moved to do so! I love hearing from you guys.


End file.
